The Path That Led Us Here
by DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: Castiel is dead. Dean follows in the footsteps left by his father. The path to Hell is paved with vengeance, booze, and Winchester fury. Cas/Dean
1. Part One

_AN: A S6 AU where Castiel did not team up with Crowley._

_I will only make this statement once. Warnings for this story include: profanity throughout, alcoholism, graphic violence, alternating time lines, medicinal drug use and non nondescript elements of rape. If any of these bother you, I suggest you click back now._

_For the undaunted, I hope you enjoy. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. _

The stink of burning flesh no longer bothers him. He's too used to it by now that he's able to block it out, as if it's not there. It's a smell he's grown up with, beginning with his mother, filled with a string of other people he'd known during his childhood. They were names without faces or faces with no names, but they were people who, at some point during the last twenty five years, had been a blip in the life of Dean Winchester. It didn't seem that long ago that he and Sam had been standing in the woods, near a similar pyre, with the body of their father lying on top.

Back then, he hadn't been able to block out the smell so thoroughly.

It was customary that, in order to have a proper hunter's burial, the deceased's belongings be thrown onto the pyre along with the body. The life was too full of hate and anger that the risk of losing a colleague and gaining a vengeful spirit was too great. Everything that had meant anything needed to be destroyed.

Still, Dean doesn't have the strength in him to throw the worn coat onto the crackling wood. He has it folded, clutched tightly in one hand, pressed against his side. Sam doesn't say anything, and he won't. Dean's grateful.

His mind feels like it's melting and boiling; drowning, in grief and despair and so much anger. He's angry at everything. He wants to scream, to pull out his Glock and shoot the next thing that moves. He wants to get shitfaced at the nearest bar and go home with the first woman who doesn't reject his drunken advances. He wants to jump into the Impala, put the car in gear, and just drive forever. Straight and straight until he hits the Pacific Ocean without ever once glancing in his rearview mirror.

Yet all he can do is just stand there and try not to cry.

He ultimately fails.

The smoke curls up from the wood, like tiny fingers, towards the sky, reaching for the stars and the moon. In a few hours, the fire will die out and there will be nothing left by a pile of ash that the wind will eventually scatter all over the tiny woods he and Sam found. There will be nothing left to say they were ever here, or that one of the greatest friends Dean ever had had existed.

Nothing except for burned pants and a stained coat, with torn lining and broken stitches. He'll take it back to Bobby's, he decides, once he regains the strength to move his legs away from the pyre. He'll take it back and he'll clean it up. The large hole in the back can be sewn up and with the right combination of bleach and ice, the blood will run off. He won't just salvage it, he'll save it.

The scorch marks that stain his pants are another story. He knows he'll have to throw them away eventually.

He looks back up at the stars, millions of them littering the sky, filling his entire line of vision. They are big ones and little ones, some shine blue and others white; some shine brighter than others, stealing the attention away for themselves. The smoke stretches up towards the sky, reaching for a star that Dean thinks is the brightest and bluest in the sky.

_God_, Dean prays for the first time since before his mother died, _Cas was a good angel. The best. Please be good to him. _

There was so much more Dean wants to say, but no words seemed to encompass the entirety of his thoughts and feelings. They are stuck to the tip of his tongue, forgotten and abandoned. It didn't matter, he decides. If God really is omnipotent, then He knows what Dean wants to say, but can't.

Dean hates how quiet it was every time he stood by one of these pyres. He was stuck frozen in time, while the rest of the world continued to move and spin. It wasn't fair that they got to be happy and blissful and ignorant. If they had known what happened today, they would be mourning like he and Sam. They should know; they need to know that today the greatest angel the world ever knew died trying to protect them. Cas deserves so much more than a shitty hunter's funeral, burning in the woods in the middle of fucking nowhere at two in the morning with only two bodies to watch. Dean wants the entire world to grieve with him. He wants to give Cas a magnificent parade, with eulogies and wine and people talking about him and crying, feeling the same emptiness in the pit of their blackened souls that Dean feels. Instead, they get to on living, unaware that tonight two men say goodbye to the best friend either of them ever had; that tonight once again, their lives were shattered and they're left to pick up the pieces again. But the pieces are tiny and sharp and some are lost. They'll never be able to piece it all together again. Something will always be missing.

Dean is thirty years old and he's tired of being left to pick up pieces that don't fit.

"Dean," Sam says. It's the first time he's spoken in hours. Since the warehouse earlier that evening. It sounds foreign, like he's speaking another language, from the bottom of the ocean. Dean thinks he's imagined it for a moment, until Sam speaks again. "Dean, we need to go. We need to tell Bobby."

All Dean can do is nod dumbly. Sam is right. Sam is always right.

As the fire burns out and the crackling stops, Dean remembers the last time he was here, after his father's death.

He hadn't been crying then.

Sam doesn't say anything about the wetness of Dean's face this time and Dean's grateful for that too.

But Sam still has to grab Dean gently by the arm and lead him back to the Impala. He ushers Dean into the passenger's seat, and Dean doesn't complain. He sets the coat onto his lap, turning it around so that he can study the back. He fingers the tear in the fabric. It's nearly five inches long and three inches wide, from where the blade had been twisted. Dean's stomach curls at the memory of the noises that had escaped Cas's mouth in that moment.

When Sam climbs into the driver's seat, Dean places the coat under his feet and leans his head against the window. Sam starts the car and it begins to move. Dean presses his face against the window and looks back up at the stars. He can't find the bright blue star and he thinks he's about to start crying again, but no more tears fall from his eyes.

Grief turns back to anger; it's familiar, comforting.

_I hope you got your ears on Raphael,_ Dean prays hard, digging his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. _This is Dean Winchester. Tonight, you killed the best friend I ever had. I don't care how long it takes, I will spend the rest of my life hunting you down until I kill you. And I'm gonna make you suffer like you made him suffer. I'm not a lot of things, but I am a man of my word. So wherever you flew you your cowardly ass off to, you better hope it's a place I can't get to. I'm done with people fucking with my family._

888888

Cas is worn down. The light in his eyes isn't as bright, as concentrated. He's not holding himself straight and still, but instead allowed his shoulders to sag and his knees to bend. Yet, he's immensely tense.

"Cas," Dean asks, "what's going on?"

Cas looks at him, but the gaze isn't the piercing gaze Dean is used to. It's faded.

"Stuff not going so good back home, I guess."

Cas sighs. "I believe I may have made a grievous error. "

"What happened?"

Dean listens quietly as Cas speaks and tells Dean of his return to Heaven after Lucifer and Michael were thrown into the Cage.

"Explaining freewill to angels is like trying to teach poetry to fish," he says. "My brothers and sisters were not eager to hear what I had to say on the subject. And then Raphael requested an audience…"

Dean didn't interrupt as Cas told him of his conversation with Raphael and the plan to re-start the Apocalypse.

"He said if I pledged my allegiance to him, I would be welcomed back in Heaven. I refused, of course, but I think that was what he wanted. He was eager to, uh, "teach me a lesson"."

Dean imagines Cas there in Heaven, standing up to his big brother and getting his ass kicked. He's both immensely amused and proud, though his heart flutters at the thought of Cas lying wounded in Heaven, with no one to help him, and then the amusement turns to fury. He and Sammy have fought and wrestled their entire lives, but he can't even imagine hurting Sammy just because he could, because he was stronger, to prove a point. Even with Sam acting the way he has been lately. Raphael's a big brother. Shouldn't he want to protect his baby siblings?

"It's civil war," Cas says. "A few brave hearts have signed on to my cause, but we're horribly outnumbered. And Raphael's an archangel."

"I'll help you," Dean says before he realizes it. "Together we took down Heaven's top dogs. You, me, Sammy—hell, even Bobby. Together, we can take down Raphael."

Cas shakes his head. "It is not fair for you to be burdened with my problems."

"We've burdened you with our problems plenty of times before. Let us repay the favor."

"That was different," his tone is short and clipped. "I was already involved."

"Well, if the fate of the world is at stake, then it's not just your problem. It's my problem too."

A shadow of a smile tugs at the corners of Cas's lips. Dean wonders what it would be like to see Cas really smile, or even laugh. He's always clamped down tightly onto that stick shoved up his ass, but Dean thinks that someone had to make Cas that way. After his mother died, Dad became different and raised Dean to be different. Cas, he thinks, has been a soldier his entire life, just like him. And soldiers are never born. They're always made. What kind of person did Cas used to be, before they beat it out of him at the Angel Academy?

Dean knows that Cas has plenty to be stressed about—the dude could use a couple good night's rest and maybe a few shots of whiskey in between, even if he denied otherwise—but Dean wonders what it would be like to see Cas relaxed and happy.

Probably terrifying, he thinks. He wants to share the joke was Cas, but just barely stops himself. Cas won't get that it's a joke and Dean doesn't want to upset him further than he already is.

Dean swallows. "Cas?"

"Is it okay if I stay here, Dean? For just a little while?"

He's expecting to get kicked out. Dean is revolted by the idea of what tiny whispers are running through Cas' mind that made him ask such a question. Cas doesn't get along with his brothers, and from what interactions Dean's seen between Cas and the other angels, he never has. Baby brother, he thinks. Cas is the baby brother, even if he's never been treated like one. Dean already has Sammy. He can take Cas too. He wants to retort back with a sarcastic quip, but he knows that Cas won't get that either, so Dean's forced to have a chick flick moment and actually speak his actual feelings to Cas.

"Stay as long as you want, Cas. Stay forever."

Dean goes to bed a short while later, and when he wakes up, Cas is nowhere to be seen.

88888

They get back to Bobby's early that morning. Bobby's been expecting them because he's out on the front porch, even though the sun isn't even up yet. Dean wonders when Sam got the chance to call Bobby. Dean knows Bobby knows and if he didn't know better, he'd say Bobby'd been crying.

Sam gets out of the car first. Dean's slow behind because he's unsure of what to do with the coat. He ultimately decides to take it with him. To hell with what Bobby and Sam would think. They both could go fuck themselves with a knife.

He throws it over his shoulder. Neither Bobby nor Sam make any mention of it.

Sam bends down to hug Bobby. Bobby pats him on the back. "It's good to see you, boy," he says, his voice scratchy. He's been smoking again, even though he promised the boys he'd stopped.

"Hey, Bobby."

When they release, Bobby turns to Dean. He doesn't hug Dean, but Dean doesn't mind. He doesn't want to be hugged.

"Don't you just look like hell," he says.

Dean can't bring himself to smile.

Bobby sighs and turns back to Sam. "You get the works done?"  
"Yeah. All proper and everything."

"That's good. He deserved it."

_He deserved more_, Dean thinks. He chews on the inside of his lip to stop from saying it out loud. He's not angry at Bobby, he reminds himself. This isn't Bobby's fault.

"What's the word on any other angelic activity?" Bobby asks.

Sam shrugs. "Nothing so far. It's been quiet. No news is good news, right?"

"Hell no. Maybe for normal people with their normal lives. Us? No news means something's brewing in the wind. Keep your ears on, both of you."

He turns back to Dean. He clamps his hand down hard on Dean's shoulder and gives it a gentle shake. "He was a good boy, Dean. Now, I know you ain't feeling well. You've both had a shitty night. Come inside and get some rest, the both of you. Maybe I'll have breakfast when you wake up. If I decide to be nice."

"How about we skip the nap and the breakfast and just get to the booze?" Dean asks. Bobby glares at him, but Dean doesn't give a damn.

"I don't know what you're thinking, boy, but you better stop it. You're a dead man walking. I ain't your daddy, but I'm not above of putting you over my knee and smacking some sense into you. You need rest and you need to eat; if the world's about to go topside again, we need to be ready."

"Bobby," Dean says and shrugs, "you know me. I think better when I'm drunk."

"Yeah," Bobby licks his lips. "Yeah, I know. C'mon boys, get inside. Dean—well, who am I to deny a grieving man a drink?"

"Who said anything about grieving? I just haven't had anything to drink in over twelve hours. Look at me, I've already gotten the DTs."

Sam huffs and Bobby glares, but they don't say anything on the subject.

"One drink, then I'm sending both of your asses to bed. And the shower."

One drink turns into several consecutive shots of whiskey and shower and sleep are put off so that Dean can sit on the sofa and watch the Doctor Sexy MD marathon playing. Sam's asleep upstairs and Dean doesn't know where Bobby is, and he doesn't care.

The TV's playing, but Dean's not really watching. He's seen this episode before—the John Doe coma patient is nurse Susan's runaway son—and despite the surplus of liquor swimming through his blood, he's still not drunk enough to properly enjoy it.

He keeps staring at the coat and everything about it feels wrong. It's flat and stained and torn, limp, lifeless—just a regular coat. But it's not a regular coat. And that's what makes it so wrong.

Dean stands up and carries the coat to the kitchen sink. He fills it with ice water and soap and dunks the coat underneath. The ice water stings his skin and after just a few minutes submerged, his fingers are already numb, but he keeps scrubbing at the coat, at the hideous stains that don't belong there. Dean's been staring at the stains and the tears and broken lining and loose stitches for the last ten hours and they're all so wrong. It's like Raphael still has his hands on him. Still cutting into him, slicing and stabbing. He's still got Cas and he's taunting Dean with these stains and tears and broken lining and loose stitches.

Deans scrubs harder. He can't feel his fingertips, as they meld around the aged fabric. He's not sure if they're even there anymore. Perhaps he's lost his hands in the ice water, he thinks fleetingly. He pulls his hands out and dries them on his pants. He hasn't changed them yet; they're still marked with the burns, a shadow of something far grander.

The coat and the burned pants somehow make him insignificant. There was this being once, awesome and grand, that had lived for several thousand years and laid siege to Hell to pull a man from Hell. He had a family once, but they weren't a real family. They were cruel to him because he was different. He was different because he cared, but that made him him. And when his family needed him, he turned his back on them and turned towards a new family he found: a real family, with people who showed him kindness and love.

He fought and killed the brothers that had tormented him since Creation. His disobeyed, the greatest sin for his kind and fell from favor because a Righteous Man asked him for his help.

He helped cast his older brothers down into the Pit for eternity and saved the world he'd loved, the world that had caused him so much pain.

He returned to his true home to try and make amends with the family that hated him. He tried to show them the wonders he had discovered on Earth, wonders he was more than eager to share. He still had faith in them. When they wouldn't listen, he fought for what he believed in.

He gave his life for an alcoholic dropout and an ex-junkie.

And all that was left of him was a stained coat and burned pants. He might've well just died in a back alley.

Dean wonders briefly if Cas was scared during those days when Raphael had him and then decides he doesn't want to know.

He dunks his hands back in. The ice has begun to melt and the water has warmed up minutely. Dean forces himself to scrub a little longer and then he pulls the coat from the water and rinses off the popping suds.

He can't hold back the cry that rips through his throat.

_Ruined…_

The stains aren't gone. They've gotten bigger. They've run and smudged, bleeding down the length of the coat, spreading like a virus. The few parts that had remained virginal were tainted by the running stains.

Dean can't take it. He holds the soaking coat to his chest and slides to his knees. He only wanted to help, to make it better and he just made it worse.

This time he can't hold back the sobs that wrack his body.

888888

Dean doesn't see Cas for two weeks. He's worried sick the entire time. He knows Cas is busy, being the general of a losing army and all, but still. He wants to see Cas. To know he's alive.

He spends the night praying to Cas. It's lonely in the motel room by himself. Since Sam's confession that he hasn't slept since Hell, he doesn't see any reason to keep any charade of normalcy and he goes to fuck off during the time Dean's supposed to be asleep.

His brother is not his brother.

His best friend is fighting an impossible world.

Ben is not his son and Lisa is not his wife and though he loves them, he can never be _in _love with them.

_Cas_ He prays, _I know you're busy_, _but._ He stops the prayers there. What if Cas was fighting right now and Dean was distracting him? What if Cas spared an iota of his attention on Dean's prayer and that got him killed?

Cas always came when he could. If he hadn't come, it meant he couldn't.

_Fighting a war, _Dean thinks. _Fighting for free will for his people. Much more important than just keeping me company. _

_ But what if, _the sinister voice from the back of his head, the lingering from Hell, whispers, _what if he hasn't come because he's dead? What if Raphael's wasted him and pinned his dead body to those pearly white gates?_

The thought is shoved aside hastily, messily, but Dean still can't get the idea out of his head. Raphael had already killed Cas once. Dean remembers going back to Chuck's house and a bloody tooth was all that remained.

For the first time, Dean thinks there's more to this war than just the fight for free will.

He hears the beautifully distinct sound of flapping feathers.

"Cas," he says.

"Hello Dean. I heard your call."

"What if you die?" the words tumble out past his lips before he knows better.

Cas tilts his head. "Raphael wins the war."

"No," Dean says hastily, "I mean, I know that. But. How would I know if you die?"

Cas averts his gaze. "You should not burden yourself with such thoughts."

"Cas," Dean's voice breaks. "Don't talk like that. You're important to me and I'm worried about you."

A shadow of a laugh passes his lips. "You shouldn't."

"Please, Cas," Dean says. "Don't bullshit me. You're scared, aren't you? How would I know if you die?"

"Raphael would probably tell you. He enjoys gloating."

It's not the answer Dean wants to hear; but he knows it's the only one he's going to get. The thought of Cas dying-actually dying, this time—is too much. But the thought of Raphael, the winged dick who started this whole mess being the one to tell him…

He hates hoping. Hoping was passive, inactive. It was waiting. Dean knows that if you want something done, you have to fight for it.

But yet he hopes. He hopes that Cas is right, that it will never come to that.

But he can tell that's what Cas is hoping too.

"I still want to help."

"I find sanctuary knowing that you and Sam are safe down here."

"He wants to restart the Apocalypse, right? So, he needs Sam and I, to be the vessels. He won't kill us."

Cas snorts, huffs out of annoyance. "Has it every occurred to you, Dean, that there are some instances where death is preferable? You remember the pain Zachariah inflicted on you after Lilith? Raphael is far more powerful. He can inflict so much more. I appreciate your concern. I do. But let me have my peace."

Dean nods. "Okay," is all he's able to say at first. After several tense seconds, he nods again. "Okay. We won't get involved."

Cas relaxes slightly. His eyes wander the room. "I would like to stay here for a short while, Dean. May I?"

"Yeah, Cas," Deans tells himself the burn in his throat is from whiskey, even though he's bone sober at the moment, and not the building pressure in his eyes. "You don't ever have to ask."

Dean falls asleep sometime later, while Cas stands by the open window, looking out. When he wakes, Cas is gone.

8888888

Dean's not sure how long he sits on the floor like that, but eventually Bobby comes down. Dean stares at Bobby's worn sneakers, unable to look him in the eyes.

Bobby sighs. "C'mon, Dean. Get to bed. He wouldn't want you torturing yourself like this."

Cas hasn't been dead for a full twenty-four hours and they've already stopped saying his name. Dean wants to them to say his name; to acknowledge that he existed. That he meant something. He was Bobby's friend too. Hell, Bobby had taken him in, just like he took Sam and Dean. An adopted son. Cas is—had been? Was?—family.

But the words die on Dean's lips.

He allows Bobby to usher him up the stairs, to the second guest bedroom, though he vehemently refuses to let go of the coat, almost growling at Bobby like a wounded animal when Bobby tries to take it away.

Bobby resigns, rolls his eyes and mutters something under his breath that Dean doesn't understand, before he leaves.

Dean strips off his ruined jeans and looks at them, studies them. They cover the whole area of the crotch, though Dean wasn't ever hurt when—

They don't smell burned either. Dean isn't sure how to describe the smell, unable to find the words to encompass all that it is, but it's entirely _Cas_ and somehow that's enough.

He lies down on the bed and stuffs the damp coat underneath his pillow. His stupor is wearing off, darkness reaching into his mind towards him, inching closer and closer, growing faster and faster, until it overtakes him.

When he's asleep, Dean dreams of blue eyes, wide and shell shocked, staring up at him, and then they're drowned in a blinding white light.


	2. Part Two

Sam wakes him up. Dean can tell he's been asleep for hours because the sun has set and the room is cast into darkness.

"I made dinner," Sam says softly. "And Bobby says if you don't eat, he's gonna tie you down and shove it down your throat with a funnel."

"Not hungry," Dean mumbles into the pillow.

"I don't care. You haven't eaten in like two days. Even if you're not hungry, you gotta eat. And no, I'm not bringing it up here. You can walk your ass down the stairs and sit at the table like a big boy."

Dean glares at Sam, but it's only half-hearted. He's too tired to really give Sam his best bitch face. He gets out of bed slowly and follows Sam down the stairs. The kitchen smells of soup and bread and he has memories of being four and sick and his mom serving him tomato and rice soup in bed.

He's not sick, though.

He sits at the far end of the table, so that he's facing the living room. It's where he's always sat at this table, even when he was little and Dad would dump him and Sam with Bobby for weeks at a time.

But it's not right, because now he's forced to face the empty corner where Cas used to stand, back pressed firmly against the wall, arms over his chest, eyes constantly scanning, observing everything.

Dean looks around Bobby's modest home, cluttered with empty liquor bottles and books stacked in large, messy piles on the floor. The paint is peeling and there are leaks in the roof, creaks in the floor boards, but there had been an instance where Cas needed sanctuary and he had chosen this place.

Out of everywhere in the world, all the Heavens he could've gone, Cas felt safest at the home of Bobby Singer, an old, widowed drunk.

The irony is enough to make him laugh.

Sam and Bobby exchange worried glances. Sam's eyebrows knit together, his lips draw close. Bobby, on the other hand, crinkles his forehead and nose, his baseball cap sliding down right above his eyes.

Dean laughs harder. He can't control it. He's tired and hungry and hung over, but he doesn't want to sleep, and the thought of food makes his stomach churn and god does he want a drink. His body is light, but his head is heavy, pounding, pounding, in tune with the deafening heartbeat in his ears.

He's crying again.

He's never cried this much in his entire life.

He's crying and he's laughing. Sam and Bobby continue to stare at him, but they don't do anything because what can they do? Castiel is dead. Somewhere there's a warehouse with dark stains seared into the floor and there's a bloodied coat under his pillow and burned pants in the trash and he's not standing in the corner where he always stood and he'll never again get to go back to the single place where he felt safe in all of the entire goddamned universe.

"Dean," Sam says when Dean stops for breath, "if you don't want the soup, there's some pie in the fridge. I picked it up just this afternoon."

Dean laughs again and shakes his head. "I don't want any," he pushes the bowl of soup away and untouched. The taste of salt is still fresh on his lips. He laps it up and then laughs some more, harder, until his side hurts.

"You're not going to bed until you eat something, and shower. You're stinking up my whole house," Bobby says.

Dean stops laughing and looks Bobby straight in the eye. He huffs, a shadow of a laugh; the humor is gone now. All that's left are the tears. "You were right earlier," he says. "You're not my dad." He stands up, the chair screeching across the linoleum floor and begins to head for the door.

"Dean, wait," Sam says, grabbing him by the shoulder. Dean rips of out Sam's grip and picks up his car keys off the key ring. "Where the hell are you going?"

"He ain't going nowhere," Bobby snaps. "Boy, sit your ass back down and eat."

"I'm not hungry," Dean says and he opens the door.

"Well, wherever you're going, I'm coming with," Sam says.

Dean stops and glances back over his shoulder. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "I don't think so, Sammy. C'mon, don't look at me like that. I'm only going for a drive. Give me two hours. I'll be back."

Sam stands stiffly on the porch, his face contorted into the best bitch face Dean has ever seen. He rolls his eyes towards Bobby, who huffs. "Two hours, Dean. If you're not back in two hours, I'm coming after you."

"That won't be necessary, you'll see," Dean smiles and climbs into the driver's seat. He turns the ignition on and the stereo comes to life with the engine. Instead of playing Dean's usual cassette tapes, it's playing the radio, some indie rock station that Sam had been listening to when he went out earlier.

_It's too cold for angels to fly_

Dean punches the radio to turn it off. He hopes Sam and Bobby hadn't seen that, and he doesn't stay around long enough to find out. He puts the car in drive and floors it out of the Singer Salvage yard.

The drive only takes him half an hour, but setting up the devils trap and hex box take another twenty minutes. Dean's hands are shaking violently. The lines are not as neat as they could be. Some are thicker than others, and he stains his hands more than he should have, but he gets it done. The pentagram is wide enough to give Dean the berth he'll need. Dean buries the box in the middle of the trap and pats the dirt down neatly. He stands up and feels the presence behind him.

"To what do I owe this displeasure, Squirrel?"

Dean turns around to face Crowley.

"Oh, my," Crowley's lips pucker, his eyebrows furrow. "Don't you look just awful, darling."

"I want Cas back."

Crowley smiles, revealing a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. He laughs. It's soft and gentle, teasing. The glaze of his accent makes it charming even, and that infuriates Dean.

Dean frowns and digs his fingernails into the flesh of his thigh. He has to resist every urge to deck Crowley. To beat his face in, till his skin is painted red and those damned perfect teeth fall out in a pile atop the dirt. He has to resist, though. Crowley's a demon. He's only a man. Crowley can't leave the devils trap, but he could still hurt Dean inside it if he wanted.

"Thank you, darling," Crowley says. "That laugh was worth the trip up top. Was that all? Because, fun as this had been, I do have a boiling pit of despair and agony to run."

"You bring Cas back, and give me one year, and then this fine piece of ass is Hell's once more. That's the deal."

Crowley tilts his head. It's so Cas-like, Dean feels a wave of fury overcome him like a tsunami. It takes every iota of self control not to deck Crowley. Dean's more patient than he had previously thought.

"No deal, Mandel. Sorry, I'll take case number two. Now, what else can I do for you?"  
"Stop fucking around, Crowley. My soul for Cas's life. That's the deal. Now, pucker up and make with the demon mojo."

He steps closer to Crowley. Crowley sizes him up with his eyes.

"My, my, aren't we eager? I already have a girlfriend, though, Squirrel, so I'm going to have to pass on that kiss."

Dean does deck Crowley this time, sending the King of Hell straight on his ass. He bends down over Crowley, fire burning in his eyes. Crowley meets his gaze, unintimidated.

"Oh," Crowley says, licking his lips, erasing a blossom of blood, "you really don't get it, do you?"

"I get that you're fucking with me, because you're an evil son-of-a-bitch. But this ain't about me, Crowley. In fact, this has absolutely nothing to do with me. You're gonna work your demon mojo magic and in one year, you, and every other rotten demon filth in Hell gets to lay their hands on this sweet piece of ass. All you have to do is ring Cas's feathery ass down from Heaven."

"Therein lies the problem, darling," Crowley spits. "Castiel isn't in Heaven—oh, wipe that look of your face, I _wish_ he was in Hell. Never tasted angel before, always been curious to try. You see, Castiel's nowhere. Not Heaven, not Hell, or Earth or anywhere that's anywhere. He's just gone."

"You're lying." The back of his throat tastes like acid.

"Am I?"

"Yes."

_You have to be._

"You know I'm not. Angels are the red-headed step children of the Universe. They don't have souls. Humans—they either go to Heaven or Hell, depending on how good they were. Ghosts, too, once their spirits have been lain to rest. Monsters go to Purgatory, demons back to Hell—they were human once, after all; but angels don't go anywhere. Once an angel dies, he's gone forever. Simply ceases to be, like he was never even there in the first place."

"You're lying," Dean's about to start crying again. How can Cas just be _gone?_ How can he be soulless? He remembers Sam without his soul—cold, cruel, distant. Cas had never been any of those things. Cas had felt. Cas had loved. Cas had made his own decisions and he had fought for what he believed in. He had to have a soul.

A new hatred for God boils in the pit of his stomach. The angels were His children, Cas was His son. If Crowley was telling the truth…How could God bring Cas back to life after the smiting and Lucifer, only to turn His back on him in the ultimate end?

No.

Crowley was lying. He was a demon and he was lying because that's what demons did.

"I know you've only got a fifth grade education, darling, but even you're not that damp. Tell me, what'd Castiel do to get on God's naughty list? Poor bastard's died twice already—very painfully, I've noticed—and the Big Man brought him back. Why not this time? Daddy dearest finally get tired of the little brat? Or was it all just His will?"

"Shut up."

"Every demon north of the border knew what dear little Castiel was up to. It gave us all a nice laugh to have by our water fountains. Tiny, Fallen Castiel going up against the big brother—someone call Adam Sandler, it's a blockbuster in the making."

"Shut. Up."

"Maybe God got tired of tiny, Fallen Castiel fucking everything up and He's glad to be done with the bastard. The Prodigal son can only come back home so many times and Castiel was about to run away again."

"Shut up!"

Dean pulls his pistol from his back pocket and lodges a bullet into Crowley's shoulder. Crowley flinches at the impact, cries in pain.

"But Squirrel, we didn't even come up with a safe word!"

"Next time it'll be the Colt," he snarls. The only reason he hadn't brought the Colt with him was because he was sure he wouldn't need it. He was sure any demon would've jumped on the chance to molest his soul. The thought that Crowley wouldn't had strayed through his mind, but his pride was worthless now, and he would've groveled if he had to.

The thought that Crowley wouldn't help him because he just couldn't had never entered his mind.

Crowley gets to his feet, dusts off his jacket. "I'm still punishing the demons, you know," he says and Dean immediately knows what he's talking about and he goes for his gun again, because he doesn't want to think about it, but for some reason he can't make himself shoot. "It was made absolutely clear to all demons that they were to stay out of Heaven's affairs. Their actions aligned them with Raphael and well, even I'm not that heartless to condone what they did."  
Dean remembers Cas crying and it still feels wrong and rotten. Cas coming to him, not for safety or company, but comfort. He doesn't want to remember. Doesn't want to be reminded of all the ways he failed Cas, of all the ways he allowed Raphael to break Cas.

He digs his heel through the spray pain, erasing a bit just large enough to break the seal. "Go," he barks.

"For what it's worth," Crowley says, "I'm terribly disappointed he's dead. I was rooting for him to win the war. He was much more preferred to rule Heaven than Raphael. More of a pushover, you know?"  
"Go!" Dean yells.

Crowley's gone in an instant.

Dean stands alone for twenty seconds before his knees give and he falls to the ground. He can't bring himself to stand, or even sit, so he lays down on his side and stares up at the sky.

It's too cloudy to see the stars.

Precisely one hour later, he hears the roar of Bobby's truck pull up next to the Impala, the slam of a car door, Sammy's distinct, loud footsteps.

"Dean!" Sam is kneeling down by him, hands firmly pressed on his shoulders. Bobby is standing beside him. "What did you do?"  
"Nothing," he says softly.

"Who did you talk to? Crowley? Bobby, set the trap again, we're calling him back up here—"

"Sam," Dean says loudly, "Sammy. I didn't do anything. He wouldn't deal."  
Sam's panting. He slaps Dean straight across the face. "Damn it, Dean! Don't you ever frigging scare me like that again! What the hell do you think you're doing, trying to make deals? _We _had a deal! We promised each other no more demon deals."

"He wouldn't deal."  
Sam sighs and gets off of Dean. He rubs his face hard with his hands. Dean glances up at him and realizes he's crying. His heart drops into his stomach. Everyone's been crying a lot, himself included.

"Do you think he's in Heaven?"

"What?"

"Crowley said Cas isn't in Heaven. He says he's gone. What do you think? God would let Cas into Heaven, right? Crowley was just lying?"  
Sam hesitates for a moment, before nodding. "Of course he's in Heaven. He's an angel. And Crowley—you know demons lie. Crowley and Cas were always at each other's throats to begin with." He stands shakily to his feet and bends down, taking Dean's hand. "C'mon, Dean. You need to eat and you need a good night's sleep. A real night's sleep. No drugs, no alcohol. We brought you your soup. Got it all packed in a thermos for you, so it's still hot." He pulls Dean to his feet. "Please just eat a little bit. For me?"

Dean looks at his younger brother, sees the worry in his eyes, the stress lines deepening his skin. Bobby looks like he's aged ten years in the two hours Dean's been gone. He can't stand to think of the pain he's put them through, but he couldn't just not do anything. He had to try. He was so tired of losing his family. Mom, Dad, Pamela, Ellen, Jo, Ash.

Castiel.

They all had been ripped away from violently, each taking a piece of himself with them. Each death, Dean became less and less of a person. He tried to fill the gaps with alcohol and sex, but they were only temporary and the hangovers he felt the mornings following a particularly bad night were the closest thing to a physical manifestation of how his heart felt all the time.

He wishes he had never been born. Or, at the very least, that he had died all those years ago after the semi accident. He wishes he had gone with Tessa the first chance he got. He wishes that Dad hadn't made that deal with Azazel, his soul for Dean's. Everyone Dean Winchester ever knew was doomed to die a horrific, painful death.

"Dean?"

He looks up at Sam. He wonders how much time has passed since Sam last spoke. It feels like years.

"You got any of that pie in there?"

888888

Dean hates wendigos. They're fast, elusive, mean and god, do they smell. He's already taken a scalding shower, but he can still smell the stench on himself and it makes his stomach turn in revulsion.

Sam is unaffected by the smell and blood that coats him, but then Sam's been unaffected by pretty much everything since Hell.

Side effect of being soulless, Dean thinks.

He keeps his eyes on his brother as much as he can-on what he thinks is his brother, at least. He's still not completely sure what exactly this thing is parading around in his brother's body, but he's already prepared himself for the worst possible scenario.

It's like when Lucifer wore him. Dean can look at him at know at the surface that it's not Sam, but there's something underneath, way deep, that makes Dean hesitate. Even when it was Lucifer he was talking too, and Lucifer he was looking at, Dean could still feel Sam in there.

It's not as strong now as it was then, but it's there. Dean's prepared to kill this thing should it turn out not to be his brother.

But he can't shush the voices that tell him it is Sam and this is just how he's going to be now.

There's a loud crash to his right. The lights flicker for a single moment and then come back on with a whine.

Dean jumps up off the motel bed, pistol already drawn and pointed at the noise. Sam follows suit, but Dean catches sight of a familiar tan and he relaxes, holstering his gun back into his belt loop.

His blood runs ice cold.

"Cas?"  
Cas is lying face down on the carpet and doesn't appear to be able to move. Dean rushes towards him and grabs him by his arm. He tries to lift him up, but the angel is dead weight, barely conscious, so Dean calls for Sam to help him. Sam grabs Cas's other arm and together the two of them get him onto the closest bed, flat on his back.

Dean's breath catches in his throat.

The right side of Cas's face is coated in slick blood. Bruises are painted underneath both eyes, his nose is twisted—clearly broken—and his lip is split clear down the middle.

Dean gets onto his knees and runs a hand through Cas's bloody hair, fingers stopping when they come in contact with something that screams _wrong._ Dean doesn't want to look at it yet.

"Cas?" He whispers softly.

Cas's eyes flicker open. They're dazed and frightened, but locked onto Dean with such admiration Dean finds himself wordless.

"Dean?" It's barely audible.

"Cas, what the hell happened?"

Cas's eyes leave Dean and track around the room, scanning every corner, every crack in the ceiling and walls. "Where am I?"

Dean's fingers curl into Cas's hair. "Washington," he says. "Just outside Seattle. What happened, Cas?"

"I don't know how I got here."

Okay, that's bad—head injury; but Dean knows he can't let that worry sink through to Cas. Cas needs him to be calm.

"That's okay," Dean says. "You got here, that's what's important. You're safe. Sammy and I will protect you."

"Safe," the world rolls off his tongue, slowly and unfamiliar. His eyes waft over Dean once more. "You smell horrendous."

Dean chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Is that you talking or just the concussion?"

Cas's eyes squint hard. "Where am I?"

Dean's heart falls straight into his stomach. "Sam, get your ass over here. I need to check out his head." Dean turns on the nearby lamp as Sam kneels down next to him. He can see a spot where Cas's hair is tangled and matted to his head. He reaches over and peels it away, but the blood acts like a glue to his skin.

A low moan emits from the back of Cas's throat.

"Shit, shit, I'm sorry, Cas, I'm sorry," he mumbles, but his mind is screaming at him. _Gotta do it, gotta do it._

When the hair is peeled away, Dean's facing the wound and it takes all his self control not to turn around and vomit.

"That's brain," Sam quips in nonchalantly. He whistles, like he's fucking amused and Dean's head spins.

_That is not my brother that is not my brother._

"Hello, Sam."

"Looks like it really hurts too."

Dean gathers the courage to look back at the wound. He can see the gray matter, a golf ball sized hole burned into Cas's skull. There are bone fragments lodged into the folds and blood seeps out like molasses.

"Jesus, Cas, how did this happen? Did Raphael do this?" It's a stupid question, because who else could have possibly done this?  
Cas looks up towards the ceiling. "I-I don't know."

Dean's panicking, but he can't let Cas know that. He needs to keep calm for Cas. "Okay. That's okay. You know, it's not actually that bad. Probably looks worse than it feels, right?"

"You must've seriously pissed someone off. How are you still alive?" Sam says. "Angel or not, it takes serious power to spilt the skull like that."

"You can heal that, right?" Dean says quickly. He doesn't need Sam upsetting Cas. He needs Cas calm.

Cas reaches up with his hand to touch at the wound, but Dean catches him by his wrist before he can. He swallows. Dean watches as the lump descends down his throat.

"Yes," he says eventually. "Yes, I can….I can heal it. Just need time."

"Is there anything you need? Or want? Some water, at least?"

Cas's eyes are towards him, but they're not looking at him. The intense, soul piercing gaze Dean has come to expect (something he learned to become fond of) is gone. Rather, Cas is looking past him, but yet nothing in particular.

"Well," Sam says, "now we know that angels can get concussions. That'll be useful."  
"Shut up!" Towards Cas, his tone softens. "Cas? Water?"  
Cas's eyes snap towards him, gaze direct, like a lasso. "No," he says, slowly, "no. That. That will. That will not be. Not be necessary."

His back arches, his fingers curl into the bed sheets. Sweat shines on his forehead. "I just. Just need. Rest."

"And then you'll be able to heal that?" Dean's not a doctor, but he can smell infection pilfering the grotesque wound. It's been several minutes and it has not changed. Dean's watched Cas shrug off bullet and stab wounds, stumble off burns, come back from being exploded and walk off falling out a ten story window. Every incident involving injury, all it seemed to take was Cas giving an iota of attention to the wound and it healed.

"Yes." Talking is obviously expending too much energy.

"Just keep quiet, Cas. Focus on resting and healing."

Cas nods and closes his eyes. Dean runs his hands through his own hair.

Sam stands up. "I'm going to shower. Stay out of my bed, Dean. Just because I don't sleep doesn't mean I don't like laying down. You can share with Mr. Comatose."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. It's the most Sam-like thing he's heard from this thing's mouth since they were re-united. He climbs into the opposite side of the bed. Cas really doesn't take up that much room. He stays flat on his back, keeps his arms by his side. Dean turns so that he's on his side and can keep his eyes on Cas; on his chest, rising and falling.

"Just focus on healing Cas," Dean mumbles. "You'll be okay. I promise."

It comes out through a bated breath, stumbling past Cas's lips. "Safe," he murmurs.

Dean doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he opens his eyes, sunlight is bleeding through the thin curtains. The bed is lighter than he remembers, and recollection slowly sinks back into him.

Cas is gone.

There is still a patch of dried blood on his pillow.

888888

Sam drives the Impala back to Bobby's. Deans sits quietly in the passenger's seat, the thermos of soup held tightly in both hands. Every now and then, he takes a sip. The warm liquid slowly crawls down his throat before dropping into his stomach. His stomach twists at the intake, but Dean doesn't voice his complaints. He's doing this for Sammy. He doesn't want to upset Sammy.

"You kissed him," Sam says after a long stretch of silence.

Dean sighs and places the thermos in the cup holder. He glances out the window, at the stars that aren't there.

"Yeah."

It was cold and it was lifeless, but most importantly, it was too late. Dean waited and waited and denied and denied everything underneath his skin that screamed whenever he saw Cas; he shut out the voices in his head that spoke whenever Cas was near, ignored the standing of his hairs whenever Cas spoke and refused to acknowledge the calming aura Cas's presence had.

But he'd never been able to ignore the fury that raced through his veins when he saw Cas injured, or the desire to kill whenever Cas mentioned Raphael's name. The need to protect this holy, powerful being that Dean could never even fully comprehend in its entirety never went away.

"He loved you, too, you know."

"I know."

He did. He watched idly as Cas fell from grace and abandoned his faith in the Father that was never there. Watched as everything Cas knew, had known, fell apart around him, with no one to help him pick up the pieces. Watched as Cas turned from his Father and his brothers towards him for guidance, with adoration, devotion, worship and unfathomable love. A love that made him uncomfortable because he didn't deserve it. He was an angry, hedonistic, orphaned, godless alcoholic. He didn't deserve the love of a woman and he certainly didn't deserve the bottomless love an angel had to offer.

It never would've worked, anyway. Cas may not have gotten along with his family, but he still cared about them far more than he should have. Loving Dean Winchester would mean abandoning his family for good and Cas could never do that.

And Dean would never ask that Cas do that. He understood better than anyone the meaning of family.

The angels didn't deserve Cas's fierce loyalty and unwavering devotion.

_Raphael. I'm coming for you, Raphael. Don't get too comfortable on that throne of yours, you gigantic dick. All you angels think you're so smart, but you're actually some of the biggest dumbasses I've ever met. Pissing me off is the biggest mistake you could've ever made._

Dean half expects Raphael to appear beside him; and Dean would be okay with that. He wants the chance to kill that son of a bitch, to skewer his heart just like how he skewered Cas's. He'll make sure it's a slow and agonizing death. He'll use everything he learned in Hell until Raphael begs Dean to kill him.

And maybe Dean will do it.

But probably not.

_You didn't stop when Cas asked you to stop. You just kept going. I know what you did to him, you son of a bitch. _

His anger dissipates suddenly. Dean glances at Sam.

_He was your little brother. How could you do that to him?_

"Dean."

Dean's head snaps.

"Eat your soup before it gets cold."

Dean reaches for the thermos, but his hand stops just above it. His fingers curl inwards. Bobby's house is ten minutes away and Dean doesn't know what he'll do once he gets there.

"That was really stupid, what you were going to do."

"Had to try," the words slip past his lips quietly, robotically. He's not sure he's the one who said them.

"He was my friend too, Dean."

But you're not grieving, Dean thinks. You haven't even cried.

Somehow, Dean still takes death harder than Sam does. Maybe it's because he has seen more.

Or maybe it's because he's the one with the curse. Sam's already died once and Dean still remembers the terror, the despair and the immense loneliness that washed over him. He swore that nobody could make him feel like that, except Sam.

That was just under two years before he met Cas.

Four years before he would learn how wrong he was.

"You need to burn the coat."  
"I'm not—"

"You have to burn everything, Dean. It's respectful."  
_You should show me some respect._

Dean's mouth dries slowly, like a dying flower in the desert sun. "No," he says. "It'd be sacrilege. That coat was the only thing he ever seemed to like."

"It's not right, Dean. I know….it's fucked up, yeah, I know. But we need to keep alert in case the other angels start stirring shit up again. We need to be on our best game and we can't do that if—"

"Stop talking, Sam."

"I'm just saying, we have to be prepared for the worst."

But the worst has already happened.

He doesn't remember walking back into Bobby's house, or pilfering the liquor cabinet, but when he comes to, he's lying on the living room floor with a pounding headache. His vision is fuzzy and his mouth is dry. He's aware of the two sets of feet beside him, voices caught in the thick air. He can't make out what they're saying, but he can tell by the tones that they're angry. Probably at him, he thinks. It wouldn't be the first time.

Someone touches him. He recoils.

"Dean," a voice chokes out. Sam. "Dean, we're not doing this. You can't do this. I can't do this!"

"Calm down, Sam." Bobby.

"Calm down? Bobby, he's gonna kill himself!"

"No, he ain't. We just gotta keep our eyes on him. You keep him distracted while I hide the stash someplace he won't find."

"You better hide it good, old man," Dean slurs. "Cause I will find it, you know."

Bobby huffs and walks away. "Just go ahead and try, boy. I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm a hell of a lot sharper than you."

He isn't able to find where Bobby stashed the alcohol, but he did find Bobby's secret stash of cigarettes and that's enough for Dean at the moment.

The hangover still throbs in his temples and the nicotine sucks all the moisture out of his mouth, leaving behind an ashy taste. He draws a deep drag and blows the smoke out through his nose. He's already on his third cigarette and it's only been an hour.

He hasn't smoked since he was eighteen. He used to go through a pack a day back then, scouring whatever he could from Dad and Bobby and the drug stores. He kept his packs hidden underneath his pillow and would light up in the motel bathrooms, careful to keep the fan blowing and the smoke near the vent. He got really good at finishing off a cigarette within just a few minutes. He had to keep it short, otherwise Dad would've found out and had his ass.

Looking back on it now, he laughs at how his Dad did finally find out. It was a vampire hunt in Mississippi and after they decapitated the freak, Dad had wanted to burn it, for good measure. But it had been raining the entire week they'd been hunting the thing and all the grass and wood was soaking wet, they couldn't get it to burn. Dad had stolen his pillow case out of the Impala and was going to stuff the head inside it, but when he pulled it out of the car, Dean's cigarettes fell out onto his feet. He didn't say anything at the time—Sam had been right there, watching—but the moment Dad got him alone, he turned red faced and hit Dean clear across the face just once.

He made Dean sit down outside and smoke an entire cartoon of Marbolos and Dean got so sick, he couldn't stand without getting dizzy for three days. Afterwards, he couldn't even smell cigarette smoke without immediately becoming nauseous for years.

The cigarette burns out and Dean flicks the butt away, somewhere in the salvage yard. He rests his elbows on his knees and stares forwards.

His gives Bobby credit for his hiding spot—underneath a fake bottom in his oversized desk. Dean almost passed by them completely, but then he noticed the unusual lack of dust inside the drawers and had to investigate.

He is amazed at how easy it was to start smoking again. It was like he never even stopped.

A week later, he finds Bobby's stash of Jack Daniels hidden underneath the hood of a totaled '79 Ford Mustang. He carries the stash up to the bedroom he's been squatting in for the last several days and sits on the bed, the bottle laying out in front of him. He stares at it wordlessly for two hours before he breaks.

Sometime later, Sam finds him passed out on the floor, wearing the bloodied coat as a blanket.

"I found us a case," Sam says, leaning over his computer. It's a Tuesday morning. Bobby's house smells like eggs and sausage. Dean's stomach is empty, but churns with acidity anyways. Before him sits an untouched cup of coffee that's already gone cold. "This small town in Idaho, just past Boise. Lots of lightening storms and cattle deaths. Pretty tell signs of a demon. If we leave now, we can be there by—"

"Let Rufus do it," Dean says.

Sam blinks. "Rufus doesn't deal with demons as often as we do. Besides, it'll be good to get out and back into—"

"The life?"

Sam smacks his lips. "Yeah."

Dean smiles sardonically. There must be a God, he decides, because only God could have such a sense of humor. Sam had left the life for good the second he turned eighteen and was prepared to turn back on Dad and Dean and the life forever and he stayed out for four years until Dean dragged him back in kicking and screaming for that woman in white case.

Dean was prepared to let him go after that. To let walk him back into that apartment in Stanford and never come out.

Dean dragged him kicking and screaming, but Jessica's death shoved him back in.

How did it come that Castiel's death would kick Dean out?

"We have work to do," Sam says. "You know. Saving people, hunting things. The family business, right?"

Dean takes a sip of his coffee and hides his grimace. It's bitter. "Yeah."

Sam doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

They still don't leave for the hunt until the next day, though.


	3. Part Three

Somewhere along the way, Dean and Sam get separated. Dean strolls down the dark hallway, the Colt held firmly in his hand. He doesn't make a single move as he places one foot in front of the other, nimble as a cat. He thinks he hears a noise to his right and raises the gun in that direction.

There's nothing but his own shadow. His shoulders sag, but he tightens his grips on the gun.

Frigging demons, hiding like spineless, pathetic, worthless pieces of putrid _scum!_

Frigging Sam, can't stay two steps behind without getting lost, leaving him to find the demon scum by himself!

It's been a long time since he's had to hunt down a demon. Back during the Apocalypse, they were always too eager to approach him, with promises of a slow and painful death and a one-way trip back down to the Pit, permanently this time, where Alastair was waiting for him, his favorite pupil.

_How long will you hold out the second time, dearie? _He hears Alastair's voice, a seductive whisper hidden back inside his brain, wormed into his sulcus, forever trapped. _Longer, you think? Want to know what I think?_

Dean yells at the voice inside his head to shut the fuck up; his temples throb in sync with his racing heartbeat. He shouldn't be scared, because it's just a lowly demon and he's killed dozens of those and he's seen scarier stuff in his toilet after a night of booze and bad bar food; hell, he saw John Winchester angry beyond belief, pissed beyond any sense of recognition—not even the Devil himself was able to compare to the memories seared into Dean's brain of his father, drunk and pissed off at everything and everyone and he survived with only minimal damage to his sense of self-worth and enough daddy issues to sate the thirst of any parched therapist for life.

He is not scared.

But he still can't turn the voice off.

_You won't be able to last forever. You'll say yes again, eventually. Everyone does. You'll be down in the Pit forever this time, dearie, with only me for company. Your angel won't be saving you this time. Poor little birdy couldn't even save himself in the end._

There's something behind him. Dean spins around, biting into his tongue to hold back a cry of unadulterated fury. He holds the gun at eye level, safety off and has his finger on the trigger, prepared to shoot without a single word and he presses down—

"Jesus, Dean!"

He aims the gun at the ceiling at the last second, too late to pull off the trigger. The narrow hallway fills with the sharp crack as the bullet hits the ceiling; dust falls from the sky, coating Dean's hair and jacket. It rolls down his face and only narrowly avoids getting his eyes.

"Sam?"

"What the fuck man? You don't just—you shouldn't—you know better than that!"

"Sam?"

Sam sighs and rubs his face with his hands. He walks towards Dean and rips the Colt out of Dean's hands. Dean doesn't offer any fight. "I'll take the gun. You can take the blade." He shoves the demon blade into Dean's hands clumsily. It's lighter than the gun and Dean has to readjust to the weight in his hand.

"Where did you go?"

"Where did I go? You were the one who went off on your own! Good God, I had my back turned for two seconds and you were gone! You gave me a heart attack, Dean! You can't just go off on your own like that."

Sam's pants fill the narrow hallway. More dust falls from the ceiling. Dean's tongue is thick in his mouth and when he swallows, he feels like it's going to roll down into his stomach.

"Come on," Sam says after several tense moments of silence. He pushes past Dean and takes the lead. "It has to be here somewhere."

Dean tails behind Sam, turning the blade over his hand. Handle, blade. Handle, blade. He lets the blade linger on the skin of his palm and presses in with his fingers curled. It pierces the skin, but Dean makes no noise as he feels his blood drip onto the cold, concrete ground in small whispers of _pitter patter. _

_Oh, Dean-o, such a good boy. Little cut like that doesn't hurt a bit._

_ Shut up!_ It takes all of his self-control not to say it out loud. _You're dead!_

_ For a demon, that just puts me back in Hell, Dean-o. I can't go topside anymore, but I'm surely not gone. Not like your little birdy—_

"Shut up!"

He runs into Sam's front—he'd turned around at Dean's outburst and he looks down on Dean with bitchface number ten.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean spits. He goes to walk around Sam, but Sam grabs him harshly by his shoulder and holds him still. Dean tries to pull out of Sam's grip, but his little brother doesn't let go. "Let me go."

"Dean-"

"I said let me go!" He rips out of Sam's grip this time and staggers forward. "Let's just find this SOB and get out of here, okay?"

Sam doesn't retort back and they continue forward. Dean smells the sulfur in the air and grips tightly on the knife. He hears the demon before he sees it. It lunges at him from his right flank, tackling him to the ground. He hears Sam call his name.

The demon is on top of him, strangling him with one hand, pinning the blade welding hand down with the other. It's wearing a middle-aged man with graying hair and steel eyes. Dean thinks for a fleeting second that the poor bastard was probably a doctor or a fireman or something noble like that. He has the build for it: tall, muscular.

Dean can't get the knife through the bastard's throat and Sam won't risk shooting the thing with Dean still under him.

"Dean Winchester," steel eyes flicker to coal black and a leering smile spreads across the demon's face, something akin to the Joker's. "The Righteous Man," he purrs. "It's an honor to meet you."

Dean's head spins from the lack of oxygen. He kicks his legs wildly, blindly. His vision ebbs away slowly. The demon is laughing.

"Sammy," he chokes out, eyes searching for his brother. He begs Sam silently to just shoot, to not worry about him. The demon is what's important, not him. The demon needs to come before him.

He knows Sam won't shoot, though.

The demon loosens his grip around Dean's throat. Dean sucks in a gasp of air and starts to choke on it. He sputters and turns his head, still kicking.

He hits something soft and elicits a groan of surprise. Dean kicks again, harder and is able to push the demon off him. Now, he's on top of the demon and has the blade pressed against its throat.

Black eyes stare up at him, not in fear, but adoration. Its smile widens.

"Dean Winchester, bringer of the Apocalypse. To die by your hands, is an honor worthy of only the greatest of warriors."

"That's what this was all about, huh?" Dean snarls, pressing the blade deeper into the demon's skin. It hisses in pain, but the smile never leaves its face. Masochistic _bastard._ Dean's not sure why he hasn't killed the thing yet. If this were any other day, any other nameless, faceless demon, they would be dead, eyes rotted out and mouth agape on the floor.

This thing is still breathing, still talking and Dean doesn't know why.

"This was just all about me killing you? Making a statement to you people? Walking towards death doesn't make you a warrior, you freak. It doesn't make you brave or strong or smart, it makes you stupid. You're not a martyr."

"No, I'm not," the demon says. "That's you. And your little birdy, of course—"

Dean smashes the demon's head into the concrete and he rips the blade across the demon's neck. Blood shoots out like a hose, spraying Dean in the face.

The demon's not dead, though. It's still alive, choking on its own blood, shaking like in a seizure. Dean knows the only way to kill a demon is to skewer its heart and he has no intentions of doing that—if being killed by Dean Winchester was an honor in the demon world, he'd never kill another demon again. He'd do just this to them: cut them and let them bleed and bleed and bleed and never die.

"Never saw him myself," the demon manages out, as blood spills out past his lips, "but I've heard the stories. Pretty birdy, they said—"

Dean stabs the demon in the stomach. The demon lurches forwards, inhaling in agony and its head slams back down on the concrete hard, with a resonance that echoes in the narrow hallway.

The demon is gritting his teeth together, so hard Dean wonders how the molars are still in one piece.

"Wish I coulda been there that day—oh what I would've done for a taste of him!"

The blade is inserted in the demon's right eye. Dean digs it in deep as it will go and twists and twists. He hears Sam screaming at him, but he can't make out the words and he realizes he doesn't care. These are the same bastards who made him back in Hell and it's only fair that they get to share in the pain he inflicted on those thousands of poor, damned souls.

When he pulls the knife out, the eye comes with it.

There's a single shot and the demon's screams stops. Sam's breathing fills the empty space, gun outstretched and aimed at the demon's heart.

He drops the gun to the floor and scrambles over to Dean.

"Dean! Dean!"

Dean drops the knife to the floor. It lands with a soft clack and the eye falls off and rolls into the far corner of the room.

Sam pulls him to his chest and is muttering. Dean can't make out the words, but he lets himself fall into Sam's embrace, even though it's wrong. He's the big brother. It's his job to take care of Sam, not the other way around. Twenty six years ago, Dad told him to take care of Sammy, told him to protect Sammy at all costs and it was always his responsibility to make sure that Sammy had enough to eat and got enough sleep and whenever he had a nightmare, it was Dean's job to hold him and tell him it was going to be all right, even if Dean didn't believe it himself.

He's shaking in Sam's grip. Sam pulls him closer. He wants to bury himself in Sam, hide himself from the world. He wants to bundle into a cocoon and never leave. He wants to just lay down and die.

Sam cards his hands through Dean's blood soaked hair. Dean's entire body is saturated with the sticky, warm liquid. He remembers the days when Sam was addicted and would do anything for his next hit, even betray his brother and saunter around with a demon. He remembers the horrible, horrible days of detox, Sam's screams still echoing in his mind all these years later.

Sam holds him now, soaked in the substance that he once craved more than life, love and his brother's acceptance and his nose doesn't even twitch.

"It's all right, Dean," Sam whispers. "It'll be all right, you'll see."

Dean's ashamed for letting this happen, for letting Sam see him like this. He's too far past his breaking point to reel in, and now he has no choice but to let it all come out, even if it doesn't make sense, even if Sam has no idea what he's blabbing.

The demon wanted to be killed by Dean Winchester, but instead was done in by Sam. Dean wonders if demons consider that just as honorable a death.

Dean doesn't know how long they stay like that, but it's only after he's stopped crying and his breathing has resorted to gentle wheezing that Sam grips his shoulder—his left shoulder—and coaxes him to his feet. Sam collects the demon blade and the Colt and stuffs booth into his belt loop. He leads Dean out of the building, wordlessly and when they reach the Impala, he opens the door to the back seat and Dean crawls in without protest, laying face first into the worn leather.

Sam pulls something over him, something warm—the coat, he realizes with a belated though—and he grips it tight, pulling it over his head.

It's still bloodied and torn and frayed, but it's warm and dark underneath and that's all Dean needs right now.

The Impala vibrates with life as Sam turns on the ignition and begins the drive back to Bobby's house. There's no radio, no conversation. Just the roar of the engine and Dean's own thoughts fill the empty space.

Alastair's voice still worms its way into Dean's thoughts. Dean can hear the smirk in every word, see the taunting smile and the white glazed eyes.

_Little birdies can survive without their wings, Dean-o. But what kind of life is that?_

888888

"I do not understand," Cas says. "What is problematic with my current attire?"

"Dude," Dean says, clapping Cas firmly on the shoulder, "you look like you're ready to do my taxes, not fight for the sake of humanity. And besides, you can't seriously be comfortable in that all the time!"

Cas tilts his head and Dean has to smother the grin that plagues his face.

"C'mon, man, at least try them on." He stuffs the pile of clothes he bought into Cas's hands. Cas stares down at them dejectedly and them Dean groans and rolls his eyes because no way in Hell is he going to teach a freaking angel of the lord how to dress.

That issue is quickly resolved, however, when Cas begins to strip down in the middle of the hotel room.

"Good God," Dean shouts and quickly spins around. He covers his eyes with his hands for good measure. "Cas, there's this new thing: it's called modesty."

"I do not understand humanity's aversion to nudity. Adam and Eve stood naked in the presence of God and they were unashamed."

Dean fumbles his tongue trying to come up with a retort, but is unable. Screw tax account, maybe he should sign Cas up to be a lawyer.

"Is this acceptable, Dean?"

Dean turns around and is genuinely surprised at what he sees. Cas stands wearing the cargoes and black tee-shirt, though he kept the loafers instead of the sneakers—probably because he doesn't know how to tie the damn things, Dean thinks—and he looks more relaxed. Dean knows it's far from the truth. He can see how ragged Cas's eyes are, betraying anything he might say on the subject. But for the moment he doesn't look like Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Warrior of God and Protector of Free Will, but just Cas.

"Dean?"

"It looks good, Cas. It really does."

Cas smiles shyly and Dean clears his throat because this is moving into Chick-Flick territory and he's already had too many of those with Cas already. He has an image to uphold, for crying out loud.

"But, you know what? It's still missing something." He grabs the discarded coat off the bed and hands it to Cas. "Put this back on. It'll look good with the black."

Cas does and Dean realizes then just how much of a second skin the coat is. Cas just isn't Cas without it.

"There," Dean fixes the collar of the coat, turning it upright. "Better."

Cas stares down at his new outfit, tugs at the hemming of the black shirt. "These are clothes that you would wear, Dean."

"Well, duh. I want you to look good when you're kicking ass up in Heaven. Be lucky man, Sam wanted to shop for you at Aeropostale and douche you up. If that doesn't prove he's a soulless bastard, I don't know what does."

The shy smile melts off of Cas's face. "Dean. How are you?"

"Well, I'm just dandy, Cas."

"I promise, Dean, once the war in Heaven is finished, I will help you regain Sam's soul."

"Don't worry about it, Cas," Dean says hastily. "You've done more than enough already. Dude, you went to Hell again and raised him from the dead."

"But I was not able to raise his soul."

"Well, you were only going into the Cage where your crazy older brothers are having it out for eternity, I think I can forgive you for wanting to get your feathery ass outta there as fast as you could."

"I promise."

Dean sighs. "Yeah. I know you do, Cas. But Sam's okay right now. Yeah, he's an ass with no filter, but he's alive. You've got your own shit to worry with right now and I don't want to distract you from that. You gotta focus on staying alive, okay?"

Cas nodded slowly, eyes solemn. "I understand, Dean."

They look away from each other for a brief moment, an eternity.

"These pants are more comfortable than the other ones."

Dean snorts and looks back up at Cas. "Cas, you gotta promise you won't ever change."

-0-0-0-

_Is no one liking this? It's getting a decent amount of views and follows but no one's reviewed yet. It would really make my day if you would take a few minutes to tell me what you like and don't like. I have a few more pre-written chapters left, so there's time for me to still go back and edit if there's any grievous errors._


	4. Interlude: Sam

_Interlude_

Sam Winchester knows what it is like to fear for his life. For his father's life. For Bobby's life. For his brother's life.

But he didn't know what it is like to fear for his brother's sanity, until now.

He can see it cracking before him, breaking and crumbling and he is helpless to do anything to try and salvage it. He has never seen Dean this bad before and it scares him. Every now and then, he glances up in the rearview mirror to catch a glance of his older brother, but Dean is buried heavily underneath Castiel's maimed coat.

He sucks in a cold breath.

Sam knows that the coat needs to be burned, if not for the sake of Castiel's memory, than as a last resort to aide Dean in the grieving process. To let go. The coat is a scab on Dean's grief and he just keeps picking and picking at it. This shit with taking it everywhere, keeping it in the foot well of the Impala, or stuffing it under his pillow or wearing it was slowly poisoning Dean. Sam has thought about stealing the coat away from Dean and burning it himself, but then he imagines Dean's reaction when he discovers it missing and he can't make himself do it. It's all Dean has left of Castiel.

Castiel had been his friend, his ally, his comrade and even family in a "brother of arms" sense, but he never came close to sharing the "profound bond" Dean had with the angel. He can't fathom the level of Dean's grief, but he knows it's deeper than the grief experienced after their father's death.

That scares Sam.

He saw the love of his life burn to death on their apartment ceiling. He's seen demons and vampires and werewolves and wendigoes and ghosts and witches-all of it. But none of them have ever scared him as much as this does right now, this Dean that is not Dean.

Dean's diet since Castiel's death has been alcohol and cigarettes. Sam finds the butts everywhere now, even in the car between the seats, still caked in ash.

His shirt still smells like salt. Sam's fingers tighten around the steering wheel. He's not used to Dean needing him. He's not used to Dean snapping and breaking in ways unimaginable. He knows that what Dean did to that demon wasn't the first time he'd done something like that, but knowing what his brother had done in Hell and seeing it were totally different things.

Sam knows he's not going to sleep tonight. Maybe not ever.

God he needs a drink.

But he can't. He's spent too many nights these last few weeks sitting by Dean's bedside after he finally passed out drunk on the floor, spent too many mornings dealing with a quiet hung over Dean that Sam is totally fine if he never has another drink for the rest of his life.

The hunt was meant to get Dean off his sorry ass and back into the life he was meant to live. Sam never imagined it would turn south so quickly. He doesn't know what the demon meant when he spoke about Castiel, but Dean did and it was enough to make him back into the thing he became in Hell.

He remembers the night Castiel died and Dean cradled his head in his lap. He remembers as realization dawned over Dean and he cried and then he had bent his head down and he has kissed Castiel, soft and chaste.

That image lingers longer in Sam's mind than the one of Castiel's broken wings seared into the ground. He feels stupid, looking back on it now. He should have seen it. It had been right there in front him the entire time and he had turned a blind eye. "Profound bond". That wasn't Castiel just being his usual, strange, socially awkward self. He was being serious.

His memories of being soulless are hazy, drowned in fog. He remembers the detachment, the thirst for the kill. He remembers being mean to Dean and Castiel, apathetic to their causes. Maybe if he'd had his soul he would've seen it.

He realizes he never apologized to Castiel for the things he said. Like, maybe threatening to kill him.

Sam glances back at the rearview mirror. Dean hasn't moved. The only indication he is even alive is the monotonous rising and falling of a tan coat that's stained and torn beyond repair.

_That is not my brother there is a stranger wearing my brother. _

He's never seen his brother possessed, but he imagines this is what it would be like. A stranger looking at Dean would not notice anything wrong. Sam Winchester, sparring a passing glance at his brother, would know at once there was something wrong, but not what. He wants to think that the Dean he knew is still there, drowning underneath the monster that's possessed him. Sam imagines Dean screaming from the recesses of his mind for Sam to save him, just like how Sam had screamed for Dean when Lucifer wore him.

But when he looks at his brother, he can't entertain such thoughts. He looks at his brother and he doesn't see his brother. He sees a drowning man, who refuses any help thrown to him. Dean had given up. That wasn't right. Sam was the one who gave up. He was the one who ran away when life got tough, when the shit hit the fan. Dean didn't give up; he wasn't supposed to give up It wasn't in his blood to just _give up_. Dean brushed himself off, got back on his feet, spat in the face of the enemy, snarled "Boo hoo tough shit" and then he moved on.

At least that's what he used to do.

That Dean had left Bobby's house with the intention that night to make a deal with Crowley terrifies Sam. And, Sam will admit, makes his slightly jealous at the same time. There was a time when it was just him and Dean. Even when their dad was still alive, it was the two of them together. They were known as Sam and Dean Winchester, always together, because they weren't real if they weren't together. Sam and Dean Winchester—John Winchester never even entered the equation. He was separate from them, if people talked about him at all. It was John Winchester and his sons, Sam and Dean. And that's how it had been for Sam's entire life, a whole quarter of a century.

But somewhere along the way, that changed. Sam isn't sure when it happened, but it did so slowly and naturally. Sam and Dean Winchester became Sam and Dean Winchester and their angel of the Lord, Castiel. Castiel, who was awkward and standoffish, but a total BAMF, who could argue philosophy and understood quantum physics, but still didn't get Dean's lame Star Trek jokes, who faced down Heaven's most fierce weapons and demons, but was nearly driven to tears by the advances of a prostitute, who could be so furious to the things he had once called his brothers, yet so kind and gentle to Sam and Dean Winchester, two worthless humans who couldn't do what the rest of humanity had since the dawn of time, avoid starting the Apocalypse.

Castiel had blended in them with so easily, as though he had always belonged with them. And Sam does miss him.

But he is Dean's brother, not Castiel. Only he should be worthy enough to Dean to sell his soul for. Because even when Castiel joined their little, broken family, it was still Sam and Dean Winchester first.

At least it still is in Sam's mind. Who knows what Dean thinks of the situation? Was there a time, maybe when he was still on the demon blood, or more recently when he was soulless, that it was Dean Winchester and Castiel? No Sam to the equation at all? Sam doesn't want to know.

But he does know that his brother is hurting, and breaking, and for the first time in his entire life, Sam isn't enough to make it better.

_End Interlude_


	5. Part Four

Dean's going to kill Sam. He's already made up his mind about how he's going to do it too. He's going to set up roller blades, or a baseball bat, or something small and moving at the top of Bobby's stairs and he'll let the bastard trip over it and break his neck down the stairs. Let the bastard's height being his undoing.

It's that fantasy playing through his mind that keeps him from yelling at the pretty woman sitting in front of him.

When did 'let's go get drinks' become 'hey, we're not actually getting drinks, I just said that to get you out the house, we're actually going to see a fucking therapist because you're insane!'? Not insane, Dean amends. Not necessary. No, Sam's worried about him. Not for him, but about him. Enough to lie to him straight to his face and bring him to see a psychiatrist.

And then the bastard has the audacity to just leave him there!

Dean's going to kill him.

"Hello, Dean," she says, and Dean cringes and tries not to yell. It's not her fault, he tells himself. It's all Sam and his stupid bitch face's fault. She's innocent. "I'm Lizzy. Your brother contacted me. He's awfully worried about you."

"Sam should worry about himself."

Lizzy smiles sadly, and jots down something in the legal pad she has resting on her knees. She looks back up at him. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about yourself?"

"Look, lady, no offense—" Dean crosses his arms over his chest and he feels bad, because, she looks like somewhere he'd hook up with if he met her at a bar, "but I don't want to be here. I don't want to talk. Hell, I'm here against my will. So, why don't we both just cut the crap and get on with the rest of our lives?"

"Sam told me about your friend. I'm so, so sorry for your loss, Dean. My sister's husband died in Iraq, too, last summer."

Iraq?

Oh, that was the story Sam told her. Soldier. War. Right.

_Angels are warriors of God. _ _I am a soldier. _

"There's a support group here," Lizzy says, reaching over to the small table on her right to grab a pamphlet. "We have it every Thursday. It's for people who've lost loved ones overseas. We're always welcoming new members. It's a good way to aid the grieving process."

She hands the pamphlet out towards Dean, but he makes no motion to take it. She frowns and places it back on the table.

"It's okay to be sad about it, Dean. You clearly have people who care about you. I can tell that Sam really cares about you. I understand, support groups can be intimidating, but the research has proven them to be highly effective, for both men and women. You're not alone, Dean. It's okay to grieve."

Dean snorts. "Lady, I am not grieving. And listening to a bunch of other poor saps cry about their lives is not going to make me feel better."

"What will make you feel better, then?"

Dean leans forward, rests his hands on his knees. Lizzy leans in, too, smiling expectantly.

"The only thing that is going to make me feel better is hunting that son of a bitch that killed my friend and making him suffer. I know who did it, you see. It's just all about finding him. And I will. And once I do, I'm going to flay the skin off his bones, hack his halo off, ram it up his ass, and rip his wings straight out of his back and I'm going to burn him—"

Dean watches her as she makes notes on her legal pad. He can see where she's written and circled 'wings?' but he doesn't care. Let the bitch think he's crazy. He knows he's not far from it.

"What you are feeling is—"

"Don't you tell me that what I am 'feeling' is natural. You don't know me. Don't even try to pretend to. You can psychoanalyze me all you want, but all you're gonna come up with is a bunch of crap. You don't know me, you don't know Sam and you don't know Cas—"

"Cas? That's your friend's name?"

Dean swallows and stands up. "We're done here."

"Dean, we still have forty minutes—"

"I said we're done!"

He storms out of the room and into the lobby, not giving a damn about the looks the people sitting in the waiting room give him. He's digging out his cell phone from his pant pockets, prepared to give Sam an profane earful, because he doesn't see the bastard anywhere in sight to do it in person, but right as the phone starts to ring, he sees the Impala sitting patiently in the parking lot and he snaps his phone shut and goes outside.

Sam's sitting on the hood. "Really dude? You didn't even last the full hour?"

Dean wants to punch him, so bad, it takes every fiber of his being to hold back. "Bitch," he mutters and he gets into the passenger seat of the Impala. He watches as Sam runs a hand through his tangled hair—damn kid needs a fucking hair cut already—before he climbs into the driver's seat.

The drive back to Bobby's is blanketed in thick silence.

"Lizzy wrote you a prescription. You stormed out before she could give it to you, but she called me and I picked it up."

Sam places the orange bottle on the bedside table with a small clack. Dean stares at it, the white label with the name, Wilson, Dean, on it and the large printed PROZAC underneath, with small text stamped on _Take ONE pill by mouth twice daily. _The little, white caplets stacked in the bottom look weightless and Dean thinks for a moment if he were to toss them in the air, they'd just float right on up to the sky.

"I'm gonna stand here and watch you take it."

"Piss off, Sammy," he mumbles into his pillow.

"I'm serious, Dean."

"So am I. Piss off."

"I'll shove it down your throat if I have to Dean. Don't make me do that."

"I'd like to see you try, bitch."

Dean's genuinely surprised when Sam presses his knee against his chest and pins him down against the bed with one hand, fumbling with the prescription bottle with the other. He manages to pop the cap off. Dean pushes at Sam with both hands, and when that doesn't make him budge, he starts to beat at his chest, knuckles digging down into the soft parts of Sam's clavicle. Sam grunts in pain, but he still keeps his hold on Dean tight and presses the first of what Dean knows are dozens of white pills against his lips.

Dean clamps his teeth down, hard. It makes his skull ache, but Sam doesn't relent. He releases the grip on Dean's shoulder and quickly maneuvers so that both knees are pinning Dean down onto the bed and then he uses his newly freed hand to pry Dean's jaw open. Dean fights against it, but Sam manages to crack it open just a little bit, just enough, and he slips the pill past Dean's lip and then he's holding Dean's jaw shut.

Dean can't fight against Sam—his baby brother outweighs him and his chest is beginning to hurt—he swallows the pill against his will, cringing as it slowly eases down his throat and then he's coughing because Sam is off him and the sudden intake of air makes him dizzy.

His eyes are watering and his head pounds. He hears wheezing, but he knows it's not from him. Sam is standing by the bed and it's Sam who's crying, tears racing down his face, snot hanging from his nostrils.

"I'll do what I have to Dean," he says, his voice high and scratchy. "I don't want to do it, but I will."

Something instinctive curls in the pit of Dean's stomach. He doesn't want to upset Sam or Bobby, he doesn't mean too, but he has, he knows. Seeing Sam this way makes his bones ache. He reaches out towards Sam slowly, wanting to take his little brother in his arms and be the big brother he's supposed to be. Take care of Sammy, gotta take care of Sammy. It's his job to take care of Sam, not the other way around, never the other way around.

But it's not just Sam anymore, Dean realizes. There've been too many people now that it was his job to take care. He was foolish and selfish. He's a hunter, he doesn't get to have friends or acquaintances or anyone to care about. He'll never get to have the two-story home in the suburbs, with a white picket fence and a beautiful wife and two point five kids and a dog and work a dull, nine to five job for forty years before he can collect his Social Security benefits. Dad made sure Dean knew that, he rammed that fact into Dean's head every day for twenty years.

But after Dad died, Dean decided to hell with it. He wanted it so bad and Dad wasn't there to stop him anymore and he was so selfish. Suddenly his life was more than just him and Sam. Sam was still the focus—the sun of his universe—but suddenly there were other stars and planets that encompassed his world. Bobby had always been there, but he was distant, a place instead of a person, for Dad to dump him and Sam every now and again, but after Dad died, Bobby became the father Dean always longed for.

Ellen Harvelle stepped in as his mother, unafraid to tell him when he was being as ass (which was most of the time) but sincere enough to really give him advice when he needed it.

Jo was the sister he never knew he wanted.

Ash the eccentric cousin.

There was Pamela, the wise aunt.

And Cas.

Dean broke the only rule of hunting his Dad ever made the effort of repeating and he allowed people other than Sam into his life and to matter.

Dean promised each of these people love and protection.

And these people trusted him to provide all of that.

And now every one of them is dead.

Dean looks at Sam, crying and snotty and he's afraid. Sam is still alive. Sam still loves him and trusts him and still looks to Dean to be his big brother for protection.

There is an unabated fear that if Dean reaches out further and touches Sam like he wants to, that Sam will break and disappear and just be gone, like everyone else in his life.

He pulls his hand back and tucks in underneath his pillow.

…

He's not going to tell Sam, but the medicine does make him feel better.

It doesn't make him feel at all.

Zero's a hell of a lot better when you've been scrounging at a negative seven thousand for the last several weeks.

The instructions said only to take two a day, but he's been downing three, four, sometimes five. He keeps the quantity low enough that Sam doesn't get notice when it's time to get his refills, but high enough that he can get reasonably stoned in a reasonable amount of time.

It's not like being drunk, where the world becomes fuzzy and funny and the pain is given a reprieve. The world slows down and the pain is still there, heavy in his head and heart, but the difference is he doesn't care. He's detached from the world and his pain, a stranger in a foreign country. It's there, but it's not nagging at him, pulling him down into himself. It's only a tiny whisper at the corner of his mind, pining for him, but quiet enough that Dean can thoroughly shut it out.

He does research.

Bobby's library is massive and dense, but there's only so much on the subject Dean wants to read. Most of it is useless, trifle information, or even worse, just some religious speculation or ideal. The dog eared King James has seen better days, now complete with Dean's highlights and shorthand scribbles staining the margins, but it doesn't tell Dean much that he doesn't already know.

He stops at the part where Gabriel spoke to Mary, to tell her of God's plan. Dean wonders if this was something they got wrong. It had to be, the wrong name. He met Gabriel too, what seemed like years ago, and he cannot imagine the Gabriel he knew being the Gabriel described here.

It's so easy, to replace it in his mind.

_In the sixth month, God sent the angel Castiel to Nazareth-_

The pain that's always knocking at the corner of his mind is now pounding, cursing, demanding to be let in and felt, and Dean falters. For a brief moment he almost lets it in.

He shuts it out tighter.

In the days preceding the Apocalypse, Bobby did his best to collect everything he could on angels. There were rare; the few Bobby did manage to get his hands on were centuries old. The newest was at least from the early fifteen hundreds and they were written in strange concoctions of old English and Latin and Greek. There were some Hebrew editions, but Dean could barely read those, only managing every third or fourth word, so they were essentially useless.

He's pouring over an old tome, written by what he thinks says Jonathon Malkovic on the front.

_Obedience is all that an angel has. There is no tolerance in Heaven or in the glory of the Lord for a disobedient angel and so it is that any angel that may go against the Lord or his orders be cast down from the Heavenly Host and cut away from his Holy Brethren and become destined to perish in Isolation, alongside Lucifer. _

Dean shuts the book and pushes it to the side, grabbing the next one in his humble pile. He can't read the authors name on this one, but he doesn't care and he opens it to a random page near the beginning.

_Angels are naturally impervious to all kinds of injury and death through their connection with the Heavenly Father. It should be noted, however, that angels are not invincible. It is ironic, but an angel may be killed by the blade of his own kind, or through the righteous punishment dealt by the Archangels towards the Disobedient. _

Dean snaps that one closed to and leans back in his chair.

The pain comes back knocking harder. Dean dry swallows another pill before laying down in bed.

888888

The motel parking lot is empty, Dean being the only occupant. He loads his weapons into the trunk of the Impala and secures the fake bottom. Above him, a street lamp flickers, casting strange shadows upon him and the pavement.

It goes out with a sick crack. Dean feels the presence behind him, power radiating so strongly that the hairs on his neck stand on end.

He turns around slowly, hand reaching for the Colt holstered in his belt loop.

Raphael is taller than Dean remembers. His head is held back, chin up, arms tightly to his side.

"Dean Winchester," his voice is like thunder, reverberating in the air. It hits Dean in the face and for a brief moment he feels like he's choking. "You are a hard man to find."

"What are you doing here?"

He wants to call to Cas, but he stops at the moment before doing so. This thing wants to kill Cas and Dean will not be the one to put him into danger.

"I am here to talk."

"I'm not talking to you."  
Dean scans the area. It's wide open in all directions. He could run anywhere at any time.

But he knows it's useless. How is he supposed to out run an archangel? Better yet, how did Raphael even find him? The sigils Castiel carved in to his ribs, are they not powerful enough to shield him from Heaven's strongest weapons?  
"I have something that may be of value to you, Dean Winchester."

"A BLT on rye?"

Raphael's eyes darken. A clap of thunder screams in the air. "Your brother's soul."

Dean's breath catches in his throat. "You're lying."

"It is yours, if you convince Castiel to surrender."

This time fear is washed away with anger. "You son of a bitch," Dean spits; then, he laughs. "Cas is kicking your ass up there, ain't he?"

Raphael's head tilts in a Cas manner and for reasons Dean doesn't understand, it pisses him off. "Cas?" Then a knowing grin spreads across his face—shit eating and Dean realizes he's in the presence of something that could kill him with a flick of its wrist. "That's adorable. Does he do tricks too? Dance for treats? Please tell me you were at least responsible enough to neuter the poor thing—"

"Shut up!"

Raphael steps closer to Dean. "Castiel is losing. Very badly. Contrary to what he may have told you, I do not want to watch my brothers die. Castiel's loyalists are as stubborn as he is, and so long as he fights, so will they. And such as it is, they will die. Castiel's surrender will also be the surrender of his loyalists. I will not sit by idly while my brother's die on behalf of Castiel's pride."

Dean's lips curl in over his teeth and he shakes his head. "No. You want to re-start the Apocalypse, I ain't helping you with that. Besides, you think that Cas is just going to surrender because I ask him to?"

"He'd do anything you ask him to. He has. It is why we are in the predicament we are."

Dean doesn't need the reminder. It feels like he's been struck in the face; not so much by what Raphael says, but the honesty behind them. Raphael is not lying and Dean doesn't want to think about the unwavering trust and adoration Cas has for him. Cas betrayed his family and Fell from Heaven because Dean asked him to. Would he also give up the war he's been fighting, if Dean asked him to?

"So what?" Dean hates himself for the way his voices quivers. "What's your big plan? Sure, get Cas to surrender, re-boot the Apocalypse—what about all the stuff in between?"

"It is impervious that all of Heaven be united for the end of all things. Castiel's loyalists will undergo reeducation to ensure that their fidelity does not waver again."

"Reeducation?" Dean doesn't like the causal way Raphael says it. "You mean torture." It's not a question. He still remembers with cold clarity those awful days before Lilith's death, when Cas disappeared and left behind bitter Jimmy Novak, who only knew that angels had taken Cas back up to Heaven.

He remembers Cas returning days later, all powerful and pissed off, refusing to say where he'd been or what had happened, only that—

_I serve Heaven. Not humanity. And I certainly do not serve you._

Dean knew an automated response when he heard it. He knows what it's like to have a response beaten into you so forcefully that it comes out as instinctive as the truth.

"Call it what you will," Raphael says.

"You gonna "reeducate" Cas too?"

"No." Another clap of thunder overtakes the sky. A bolt of lightning so bright flashes overhead. Dean sees the shadows of Raphael's wings spread out on the pavement behind him. They're massive—larger than Cas's, he can just tell. "Reeducation has proved ineffective with Castiel. I will see to it that much more permanent measures are taken."

"You're gonna kill him."

"I will personally see to it that they are no resurrections this time. Now, Dean, about our transaction—"

"Stuff it. You're asking me to choose between Sam's soul and Cas's life."

"Oh, good, you were paying attention."

Dean bites into his lip so hard he begins to taste blood. Sam may be a new kind of asshole without his soul, but at least he's alive. And as the days go on, Dean can see more and more of his baby brother underneath the skin of the thing that calls himself Sam Winchester.

Cas is family too. Dean is not going to sign Cas's death warrant to get Sam his soul back—especially not from the biggest prick this side of the galaxy.

"No deal," Dean snaps.

Another crack of thunder. "How unfortunate, then." A pregnant pause. "He's incapable of loving you. It is not in his biology. It is not in any of our biology. Castiel found himself disillusioned with the Father and simply turned to you as a replacement. In his eyes, you are something to be worshipped and feared. Not loved." He looks away briefly, towards the sky. "Castiel will die, Dean Winchester. He is outnumbered in soldiers and outmatched in skill. He may have pulled you from Hell, but he is still ultimately nothing more than a disobedient little foot soldier, with a learned arrogance."

"Why don't you say that to my face?"

Dean whips around. Cas is standing behind him, accompanied by another angel—Balthazar.

"Castiel," the name drips off Raphael's lips like a bitter poison. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't show."

Cas steps in front of Dean. Dean hears Balthazar scuffle closer behind him. He's boxed in by the two angels, with no means of escape.

Not that he would try, even if he did think he could make a break through it. Dean's used to fear, but not to this extent. His feet feel cemented to the asphalt.

"You have no business being here."

"What a coincidence, neither do you."

Cas's shoulders tighten. His jaw tightens, clenched so tightly, Dean wonders if the molars are cracking. "You would do best to leave now."

"Would I?"

"Yes."

There's another horrendous clap of thunder, a massive show of lighting. It's coming from Cas this time. Dean doesn't know how he knows it. But he does, and he's so sure.

The shadows of Cas's wings are spread out on the pavement. Dean does his best to avoid flinching at the sight. For as massive and inspiring as they are, they're shriveled and tiny compared to Raphael's. Dean can see where feathers are unfurled—growing back—and they're worn and frayed. Not immaculate like Raphael's. The right wing is hanging slightly lower than the left; it doesn't curl up over his head like the left one, but stays level with his shoulder.

_What pile of shit have you climbed into, Cas?_ He thinks.

"You will not win, brother," Raphael says. "I do not know why you continue this foolishness. It is arrogant and misguided and will only lead you to failure and damnation." He takes a single step closer to Cas, but his stride is so long that only a few breaths stand between them. "I will take great pleasure in casting you down into the Pit."

Cas's head tilts. "I am not afraid of Hell, brother. I have laid siege to the deepest bowels of despair and returned, with a passenger no less. _Twice._ Can you really trust that I will be kept there, should you attempt to send me back?"

"Worry not, brother. There will be plenty of room in the Cage once our eldest are freed."

If Cas is intimidated, he does a damn good job of not showing it. Dean feels like he should be pissing his pants, but he can't tear his eyes away from the sight. A foreign sense of pride swells up in his chest.

_My angel is fucking awesome._

He pauses in his thoughts for a moment.

_My angel?_

He leers back at Cas, who still stands tall and unafraid, glowering at his big brother, sparring with words without hesitation. Cas doesn't understand sarcasm half the time, pop culture at all, but damn if he isn't a snarky little bastard when he needs to be. Cas, who pulled him from Hell, and who told him he deserved to be saved when Dean thought otherwise; who got along with Sammy and who stood by his convictions even in the face of death.

_Yeah,_ Dean thinks with a swallow. _My angel. _

"I suppose there will be," Cas says.

A tense silence falls over them. Dean thought Cas's staring was bad, but Raphael could easily take him down.

"Be wary, Castiel. The next time we meet will not be on such benign terms." He tears his eyes away from Cas and looks straight at Dean. "Consider this a gift, Dean Winchester. You cannot say I am unreasonable."

There's another flash of lighting and then Raphael is gone. Dean breathes three times and then Cas is turned towards him, resolve cracked and drowned in worry.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Balthazar backs off and walks to be by Cas's side. "I'm good."

"He's certainly gotten ballsier, I've give him that," Balthazar says. "You might want to start your keeping your pets on a leash, Cassie, lest animal control come back."

Dean bites back the retort that rests on his tongue. He turns to Cas, who is no longer standing tall and ramrod straight, but slouching. His right arm hangs limp from his shoulder.

"Are you okay, Cas? I saw your wing-shadow things, they look—"

"I am fine, Dean."

"Son of a bitch!" Balthazar cries as he examines Cas's back. "You really are an idiot, aren't you? It's completely dislocated. How did you even manage this?"

Cas hisses as Balthazar touches the tender area behind his shoulder. "It must be a talent."

"I'll say. And you were flying with this? Idiot!" He swats Cas on the back of the head. "Well, come on, now; it'll take hours to put itself back in its socket, let's get this over with, shall we? I can't do it here; you're going to have to manifest them."

Cas nods stiffly. "Be careful, Dean. Should Raphael ever approach you again, call me at once."

Dean snorts. "No need to tell me twice." He sobers. "You too, Cas." Be careful.

Balthazar and Cas are gone, the sound of fluttering wings breaching the absence of thunder.

When Dean gets back into his motel room several minutes later, Sam is lying face down on the far bed, sleeping.

8888888

A year passes by before Dean even realizes.

And despite the ache in his chest, life moved on.

It took weeks after the botched demon hunt, but he and Sam start taking up cases again. Vampires, ghosts, wendigoes and werewolves, in every state and even Canada a few times. He and Sam sleep in scuzzy motel rooms and live off bad diner food and Dean is pissed when he realizes that even though everything changed, nothing changed.

Sam doesn't ever talk about him. Bobby won't use him name and avoids the subject as best as possible. He'll just say "he" or "Feathers" but only if he absolutely has to.

When the anniversary rolls around, Dean finds himself in a bar, several empty shots of whiskey lined in front of him. He calls the bartender for another round, but the man simply glares at him and says something about cutting off that rolls a fog in Dean's mind, before Dean yells at him to fuck off.

There's a woman, tall and busty and blonde and he ends up going home with her half an hour after they first make eye contact.

But when he steps into the apartment and she begins her strip tease, he finds himself passionless. He's hammered on whiskey and high on antidepressants—he hasn't had a hookup in over a year, and god knows he wants it—he wants it so badly, it burns.

But it doesn't feel right and his body doesn't respond the way it should and Dean finds himself standing underneath a blinking street lamp at two in the morning, staring up at the stars.

_Raphael,_ he prays, but he stops there. The words don't come as easily as they used to.

He calls Sam when it starts to rain and doesn't say a word when he eventually pulls up. Dean just climbs into the car and leans down into the seat.

…

He still researches as much as he can. After ripping through Bobby's entire library, he finds himself with more questions than answers and he wishes he had talked to Cas more about the whole angel thing. It wasn't just a type of creature, he realizes too late, it was a state of being, with an entire culture and language behind it. He remembers all the times he teased Cas about his ignorance of human culture—not knowing about William Shatner or what an "enterprise" was, or how to set up the voicemail on his cell and then he considers that Cas was older than piss and had spent most of his life bumming around in Heaven, probably at the Angel Academy. That night in Bobby's barn was probably the first time he'd ever even been on Earth.

Dean wonders all the questions he never asked. What were baby angels like? More specifically, what was Cas like as a baby angel? Was he even ever a baby, or did God just put some magic into a bit of dirt and bam! there was Castiel, angel of the Lord, full grown and a stick up his ass the size of the Empire State building?

He wonders about the Enochian language. He's tried studying it, but can't make head or tails. It's not Latin, or Greek or even Hebrew.

He's studying Latin one evening and finds a list of root words, prefixes and suffixes.

_cas _meaning accident and _tiel _meaning in every way and Dean wonders if it's a literal translation. Cas existed before the Latin language even existed, but…

Dean doesn't want to think about it.

He can't find anything on archangels, though, no matter how hard he looks.

Sam clears his throat as they drive into the motel parking lot. "I think I found a case for us. There have been a few disappearances in Tallahassee and some weird deaths—I'm thinking vampire. Head out first thing tomorrow—"

"Sounds good."

"You sure? It's all right if you don't want….I can call Rufus or Garth—"

"I said it sounded good. Haven't ganked a vamp in a blue moon. Better be some fun."

To confirm it is a vampire, Dean and Sam need to examine the bodies that have come through. Dean's ruffling through the glove compartment, trying to decide the right fake ID to use. FBI, or Homeland?

He finds the one of Cas, from the days when Sam was AWOL and doped up on demon blood. Dean had needed help on the case, but really, he was just glad to have had Cas's company, even if he wouldn't say it.

In the photo Cas is squinting, head titled and hair standing in all directions. Dean can still hear his gruff, commanding, _Dean what is that_ and the startled confusion that followed after Dean snapped the photo and the flash came on.

Cas had then asked to see and he ended up taking what must have been a thousand awful, blurry pictures trying to figure out how the damn camera worked _These people, Dean, are they trapped in here? _

A smile tugs at the corners of Dean's lips. It's a good memory and he even chuckles as he re-lives it. Castiel, angel of the Lord, Heaven's resident badass, Dean's literal savior, enamored with a simple digital camera.

Dean tucks the photo into his pants pocket and pulls out the IDs for him and Sam.

It's been a long time since they got to be CIA agents.

Once the find the vampire, taking it down is easier than expected. Dean manages the be-heading with the tire iron kept in the backseat of the Impala. It's not as clean as he would like—he manages to get both him and Sam drenched in about a gallon of blood. The coppery tang rests too easily on Dean's lips.

But the adrenaline is searing through his veins now. It's different than the other hunts they've done this past year. Those were few, and certainly not as bloody as this one.

It's the blood that makes the hunt thrilling.


	6. Part Five

_Sorry for the late update; School and work have been sucking most of my time and I'm running low on pre-written chapters. Sorry this is a pretty short one, too, but I really liked where it ended. _

_NOTE: Today's chapter starts with a flashback. _

888888

Dean's sitting on the motel bed, running a damp towel over the blackened angel blade. Sam's in the bathroom, washing his face—stupid bastard can't even gank a ghost without getting doused in ectoplasm.

Dean gets the substance off the blade as best he can without needing soap or bleach. He holds it up to the ceiling, twisting it and watching the light gleam off the silver.

Sam comes into the room, rubbing his face with a towel. Dean smiles at him, despite himself. He's still pissed about Raphael being the one to give Sam his soul back—Dean's constantly worried about what the price is going to be; angels, ironically, weren't known to be very generous. But Dean's just glad to have his brother actually back. The brother he grew up with, the brother who got on his nerves and who called him a jerk and who didn't make the vic's families cry on the spot.

"Dude," Sam says, "you're fawning over that thing like a baby."

"Excuse me, Samantha—I'm just trying to take care of the most badass thing we've got. Besides me, of course. Hell of a lot more useful than you. I don't need to worry about Bladey rushing at a ghost head on and getting thrown into a wall. You know what, I might just dump you and make Bladey your replacement. He gets shotgun. You can ride in the back."

"Jerk," Sam spits.

"Bitch."

Sam shakes his head and scoffs before he falls down onto the bed. Dean chortles.

Everything seems to be going back to normal.

He hears Cas fly in behind him.

"Hey, buddy," Dean says without turning around, "I gotta tell you, I friggin love this thing. Best gift I ever got."

"You do?" Cas is genuinely surprised.

"Hell yeah. It's like having a little angel buddy with me twenty-four seven."

Cas walks forward so that he is standing in between the two beds. He's facing Sam.

Sam shuffles awkwardly on his feet. "Hey, Cas," he says.

"It is good to see you well again, Sam."

Deans shakes his head at the bright smile that comes across Sam's face. Friggin girl.

"So, Cas-who is Heaven's blacksmith? Because I want to meet him."

"Oh well, I made that blade you're holding now."

Dean only narrowly avoids dropping the blade onto the ground. He nicks himself with the edge and mutters a curse while he wipes the blood droplets onto his pant legs. "You made this? How?"

"It's not that complicated, if you know what you are doing," Cas turns to face him and reaches his hand out. Dean places the blade in Cas's grip.

"The blade has to be silver. No other metal will do. You also need angel blood. I used mine for this blade, it was easiest at the time. You burn the blood to a boil with holy fire and pour it over the blade, then you wash it off with holy water. You also need to incorporate the element of air into it. I flew through the stratosphere, catching clouds. There is a final step, but it's optional. I've included in this blade, but you can also have it blessed by another angel. It's for…good luck and protection."

"Wow," Dean says.

"Does every angel make their own blade?" Sam asks.

A look Dean can't place falls over Cas's face. "Well, no, not actually. It is customary for angels to be presented with their blade after they graduate from training."

"So why did you make yours then?" Dean asks.

"I, uh…it is actually a very boring story, you wouldn't be interested-"

"Cas."

Cas's eyes lock onto Dean. He sighs. "They wouldn't give it to me. They told me I had failed and that I wouldn't be graduating and that I didn't deserve a blade of my own."

Dean wasn't sure if he heard that right or not, but Sam's stern, "That's bullshit, Cas," does a good job of confirming what he thought he heard. "You not graduate? You're the most badass guy I know. How could they have failed you?"

"Something about 'suffers from a surplus of compassion'."

"Well," Dean clears his throat. "You showed them, didn't you? Heaven's Admins won't give you what you've earned, you go out and make your own! That's really badass."

"I am glad you both think so. They were not as pleased with the situation."

"Did you make the second one too? The one you carry around?"

Cas shucks the second blade out of his coat sleeve. "No, this one they did give to me."

"When?" Dean asks.

"After I pulled you from Hell."

"Oh," Dean says. His throat feels tight; the scar on his shoulder suddenly burns. "That was nice of them."

"That's what they said."

"Wait," Sam says. "Why did you give us that one then? It clearly means more to you."

"That is why I gave it to you. I am proud of that blade, Sam. I made it all by myself-I have put literally my own blood into it. There are no other beings in the universe that I would trust to take care of it the way you two do."

Dean shares a look with Sam. He coughs to hide the itch in his throat. "Dude. That's really fucking girly."

8888888

The memory comes back to Dean through a dream. He shoots out of bed the moment collective consciousness returns and barely takes the time to throw on clothes before he runs out of the motel room to the Impala.

He digs through the hidden arsenal, tossing aside the various firearms and knives, bottles of holy water and oil and salt and iron.

He finds it just after ten minutes, buried at the very bottom, tucked into the far corner.

There was more than just a bloodied coat and ruined jeans left.

"How could I have forgotten?" He says quietly. The blade is exactly as he remembers. It shines in the moonlight and Dean swears it glows a gentle blue.

"Dean?" It's Sam's voice; sleepy and worried, right behind him. "It's two in the morning. What are you doing?"

Dean runs the length of the blade alongside his palm. It's so light; so weightless, like he's holding a piece of the sky.

Sam's hand comes down firmly on his shoulder. "Dean? Please tell me you're not drunk."

"No, Sammy, I think I'm the soberest I've ever been." He turns to face his brother. "We gotta get to Bobby's. Now."

Sam blinks. "N-now? Dean, what are you on? We're on a hunt, remember?"

"Call Garth or Rufus, they can handle it. This is so much more important, Sammy."

"Dean, please, what's going on?"

"I'm gonna kill an archangel."

….

"Dean, please-. Please, think about you're doing."

"I am."

"I mean really think. Actually put thought—you can't kill an archangel, Dean! That's kind of where the "arch" part comes in."

"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Dean says in his best Schwarzenegger voice. He pushes the gas on the car, speeding past an elderly woman who can barely see over the steering wheel.

"And how—Dean, slow down! Jesus! How do you plan on killing one?"

"I'm still working on that."

"Dean!"

"Relax, Samantha, take your Midol already. I have a plan."

"Mind sharing that plan with me?"

"Nope."

Sam sighs. "Dean."

Dean glances at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

"Please do not do anything stupid. No deals, okay?"

"What makes you think I'm gonna make a deal?"

"I don't know what you're thinking and that's scary as fuck, dude. So please, just tell me what's running through your mind so we can discuss it and come up with a plan together."

"I'm gonna kill an archangel. That's my plan. I'll work out the kinks along the way."

In Dean's pocket, there is a fake FBI badge and stuck in his belt loop is an angel blade. It doesn't matter how or why he's going to do it, but he's going to do it. He should've done it a year ago. He let himself get caught up in the shit storm of alcohol and antidepressants and self pity.

He doesn't need the self pity anymore, at least.

They were two hours away from Bobby's. It would be ten in the morning by the time they got there. Dean estimated it would take the rest of the day to set up the summoning ritual, but it could get done today if he worked hard.

He presses the gas faster, ignoring Sam's cries of protest.

…..

He rummages through all of Bobby's supplies, tossing out everything unessential, ignoring Bobby's protests. He has the bowl set up on Bobby's desk—he had thrown all the books and papers onto a messy pile on the floor. He sets the ingredients down beside it.

"Boy, what are you doing?" Bobby says.

"Can't talk," Dean says. He pats at his pants pockets. "Lighter, lighter—where's my fucking lighter?"

"Sam told me what you're thinking."

"Good for him." Dean walks into the kitchen and looks through the junk drawers. Sam must have nicked his lighter sometime last night; he's been getting onto Dean about his smoking lately. Dean shrugged. He would bitch at Sam about it later, right now he wasn't that worried about it. He finds a matchbook and cries in triumph before going back into the living room.

He stands behind the desk, matchbook in hand.

"Dean—" Bobby's voice is strained. "Dean, look at me."

Dean does.

"Dean, I know you're hurting. I can't imagine what this last year has done to your brain, boy, and I know you're angry and you have every right to be but this—this shit has to stop. You can't keep walking into stuff blind. You can't let this anger overcome you. You saw what it did to your daddy. It killed him slowly. It ate at him until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

"I know how you feel. I still miss Karen, but even back then I knew well enough that I had to let her go. I had to let the anger go. Your daddy was a bad role model. He taught you wrong. Anger, vengeance. They're not weapons, boy, they're poison. And not just to you. Don't you have any idea what your little escapades are doing to Sam? To me? I want to see Raphael dead just as much as you do boy, but you can't run into things blind."

"I'm not running into it blind. I've been researching."

"And how much of that information has been helpful? And this isn't just any old angel we're talking about. This is Raphael, the archangel. He's spoken to God. He's bound demons and cast them into Hell. What do your books got to say on that?"

Dean's hands hesitate for a moment.

"He killed Cas."

"I know, son. But even if there was a way to kill an archangel…it's not going to bring him back."

"I know," Dean says, aggravated. Why do people insist on telling him stuff he already knows? Why do they insist on treating him like he's fragile, that if they use any excessive force at all, he'll break and crack? Dean knows they try, but they can't help him. Hell broke him so perfectly that an angel had to rebuild him from scratch. Sam and Bobby…they try. They try so hard and he sees the pain they're in. He doesn't want to put them through pain, but they just don't understand. He can't just let this go. He can't just move on. Bobby said it himself; It's not in his blood. He pulls the match against the box and holds it up, watching the flame dance, the smoke curls up to the sky.

"Dean!"

"Raphael," Dean says, drawing out the vowels, the way Cas used to pronounce it with the Enochian accent, before dropping into the bowl.

The bowl erupts with blinding smoke. It's inches thick, clouding around Dean's eyes and ears. Dean can't see. Bobby is somewhere next to him, cursing and coughing. The room becomes humid, sweat droplets form on Dean's eyebrows and race down his face. His hands are moist, but his mouth is dry, even though he hasn't had a smoke since the day before.

The atmosphere remains unchanged, though. No lightening, no thunder, no awesome power surging through.

The smoke clears and Dean looks ahead. There is nothing there but a dirty wall. His eyes scan the room; only Bobby is with him. He has his hat off and is batting away at the remaining smoke.

His throat feels tight.

"How…" Dean digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand. His hands move up to his head and he digs his fingernails into the flesh of his scalp, as deep as they'll go and then he forces them in even deeper and deeper. He screams, spins around and punches the wall behind him, so hard his fist goes clear through and decades of dust and drywall cake his skin. He kicks the desk and tosses aside the bowl, flinging it straight into the kitchen where it hits the far wall and bounces off the floor. The nearest lamp ends up shattered on the ground and the air is permeated with Dean's swearing and Bobby' screaming. Bobby's trying to hold him back, has his arms wrapped around Dean's torso, but Dean tears away easily and it takes everything, everything, beyond everything in him not to turn around and hit Bobby too.

Bobby didn't believe it would work, Bobby didn't want it to work, and it didn't work and it was all Bobby's fault and it was all Sam's fault and it was Dean's fault and John Winchester's fault and Raphael's fault and it was _God's fault._

Where the hell was God in any of this? Where was he when Azazel forced his mother into deal? Where was he, ten years later, when a demon broke into his house and forced his baby brother to eat his blood? Where the hell was God when John Winchester drank himself into oblivion, when he fucked off for days at a time, when he beat his own children the few times he was there?

Where was God when his children jumpstarted the Apocalypse? Where was God when Michael and Lucifer had their big standoff? Where was God that year that Dean was so lonely, and his brother was dead, and his only friend was gone and fighting a war all by himself?

Where was God when Cas needed him? Where was God when Cas still prayed to him, for guidance, for fucking forgiveness? Where was God when Cas was missing and lonely and hurting and believing he deserved it all?

And where was the hell was God when Dean needed him?

Dean falls to the floor, unable to hold back the strangled sobs that tear at his throat, begging for release. He curls on his side and pulls his legs up to his chest. His fingers tangle in his matted, unkempt hair.

His heart is filed with such hate; it burns, but is icy cold at the same time. It's nestled deep in the pit of his stomach, but it makes him feel lighter than air, barely existing. He hates Bobby and Sam for not understanding, and he hates Cas for dying, and he hates Raphael for killing him, and he hates John Winchester for drinking and for beating him and for fucking up his life and he hates God for everything.

He's in Hell again, he's sure of it. Soon enough now, he'll only blink and then the walls of Bobby's living room will melt away to chains and fire and scalpels, Alastair's voice, singing to him.

"Oh, Dean," Bobby says. He touches Dean gently on the side, but Dean jerks away and this time he does hit Bobby, square in the face. Shocked at what he's done, he falls limp onto the floor.

Everyone he loves gets hurt because of him.

He cries until he's sure his body is depleted of water and then he just lays there on the floor, unmoving. Sam comes in at one point and he just sits down by Dean. He doesn't say anything; he only sits there, eyes locked firmly on him. Sad. Despondent. But there is no judgment. No anger. No fear. Only a sad acceptance.

That's worse than Sam yelling and hitting him.

This has to be Hell.


	7. Part Six

"I do not understand your insistence for brutality," Cas says, knees bent as far as they could. He touches a single finger to the demon corpse and jerks away like he's been burned, something akin to disgust on his face.

"Dude," Sam says, rubbing the bloodied demon blade on his jeans, "they were demons. I don't think they deserve the gentle treatment."

Cas stands to his full height. "That is not what I meant."

"Oh yeah?" Dean snorts. "Then what did you mean?"

Cas pulls his lower lip underneath his upper—and if Dean didn't know any better, he would say that the angel was pouting.

"Sparring. It is an art form. It is not about the kill, but the dance for survival. Your methods are actually rather tasteless."

"Hey!" Dean cries. "Well, then, Cas, enlighten me. How do I spar with taste?"

Cas shucks out his spare angel blade. "First, fight how you would normally."

Dean swallows. He doesn't want to fight Cas. Cas could kick Dean's ass from within a coma. He remembers that alley, from those horrible days during the Apocalypse. Cas had already been Fallen then, just on the cusp of mortality; he was a scrawny little shit already, but he hadn't had any problems with picking Dean up by the collar and beating him into next week.

But this time is different. He and Cas have come a long way since then. Dean looks into Cas's eyes and he doesn't see the unprecedented terror fury he had back in that alley. He sees a friend; not quite an angel, but not quite a man. He sees weariness and stress, hopelessness, but most of all Cas just looks tired.

This war is killing him. His visits are becoming fewer and farer in between, and it takes all of Dean not to fall to his knees and pray to Cas for just a sign of life.

And he can see that Cas needs this…whatever it is. Dean can only indulge. He takes out his own angel blade—the blade Cas gave him; the blade Cas had made all by himself.

"When you're ready," Cas says. Sam steps back without a word.

Dean grips the blade tight and huffs. Then, he lunges at Cas with all his speed. Cas merely steps out of the way, then grabs Dean's arm as he runs by. He twists it—not hard, but firm enough—so that it is pinned behind Dean's back and Dean feels the point of Cas's blade against the nape of his neck.

"You're dead, Dean," Cas says.

"Yeah," Dean pants, licks his lips. "I guess I am. Round two?"

They turn to face each other again. They're closer than they were last time. Instead of rushing Cas like last time, Dean and him travel in circles, once, twice, eyes never leaving the other. Dean lunges at Cas when he sees what he think is the perfect opening—Cas's right arm shifts slightly. He holds the blade straight and goes right for Cas's chest.

Cas disarms him with his own blade, sending Dean's flying across the room. The tip of Cas's blade is held unwavering underneath Dean's chin.

"You're dead."

"Yeah," is all Dean is able to say this time.

They try again.

And again.

Dean never makes it very far. Cas is always five, six, twenty moves ahead of him, like he knows what Dean's going to do before Dean even thinks about doing it. Cas disarms him, sometimes he even steals the blade and holds both in his possession; It always ends the same. Dean, weaponless, and Cas with the blade held over one of Dean's vital organs and his dead end stare, gravelly voice of "You're dead."

"Fuck Cas," Dean says, after they've been doing it for what feels like forever, but what Sam informs him-behind hideous laughter- was actually only eight minutes. "Am I really that bad?"

"I observed seven grievous errors with everything you've just shown me."

"Only seven?" Sam jokes from the sidelines.

Cas releases Dean. Dean turns to face him. "Well, what I was doing wrong?"

Cas's held tilts. He shifts the blade in his hands so that the handle is sticking out and the blade rests in his palm. He hits Dean lightly on the thigh. "You're feet are too close together," he says. "and your toes are turned inwards. You've already limited your range of motion and given your opponent amble opportunity to take you off balance. You always lunge when you make your first attack—this also puts you off balance, your upper body hangs in front of your lower body. You hold the blade wrong," Cas takes Dean's hand at this, despite Dean's protests and cries of "personal space, Cas!" and Sam's not even trying to hide his laughter this point. He uncurls Dean's fingers and changes how they're positioned-now, Dean's holding it like he would a pen.

"This gives you more flexibility with your weapon," he says, and because Dean's now determined that Cas is just being a showoff, he twirls the blade single-handedly, slipping it in and out of his fingers with ease. Dean watches as it swims between his fingers, effortlessly.

"You go straight for the kill shot, instead of disarming you opponent, which narrows your objective and leads you wide open for any number of counter shots. You slouch when you stand and most importantly of all, you do not look your opponent in the eye when you take your shot."

"Damn, Cas," Dean says, taking it all in. It's almost rehearsed, Dean thinks. Cas is only repeating something he's heard before, something that has been drilled deep into him. "Way to make me feel inadequate."

"You are perfectly adequate, Dean."

Dean coughs into his hands. "Who taught you to fight?"

Cas looks down at his angel blade; sorrow encompasses all his features. "Raphael."

Dean feels like he's been hit straight across the face. "I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago. It hardly matters now."

Cas looks up to the ceiling. "I have go," he says and before Dean can anything, he's gone.

8888888

It takes seven days, a bottle of Whiskey, half his bottle of Prozac and entire cartoon of cigarettes later, but Dean forces himself out of the slump by diving into more research. He refuses to give up. He made a promise and he has every intention of keeping it.

Even if it takes the rest of his life.

He can't give up the booze yet. Or the Prozac. They help him function. The world around him blurs and shifts, melts into the background when he's stoned and bodily needs like sleep and food are forgotten. It means he can research more.

Most of what's on the Internet is pure bullshit. Not even legends or theories, but downright asinine, moronic crap, probably written by some religious hippie knocked out on LSD. At least Dean's addictions were legal.

He's running out of books and is left to his own theories on why the summoning spell didn't work. Dean had never thought as archangels as being different to angels except for in regards to power. All supernatural creatures had some sort of hierarchy, some sort of alpha king that was just biologically stronger, but not biologically different. They still had the same weakness as their lesser counterparts, it just usually took more of it.

Archangels, Dean thinks, are different. They are not just super-powered angels. They were specifically chosen by God to be better.

He finds himself outside Bobby's house, staring up at the sky. Praying again, but not to Raphael.

He's genuinely surprised when Samandriel appears in front of him.

"Dean Winchester," he says, chin held high. Dean smirks; it's kind of cute, really. He's still wearing the damn wiener hut uniform, with the crooked "Alfie" name tag. "I never imagined I would receive a call from you."

His eyes are locked onto him with the same intense focus and adoration that Cas used to have. It's nearly too much for Dean. "Alfie," Dean says, "how's Heaven?"

"Intense," Samandriel says slowly. "Raphael has been in a good mood. It's rather frightening."

Dean sucks on his lip. "How was reeducation?"

"Educational."

"Really?" Dean doesn't bother to hold back the sarcasm, even though he's fairly sure Samandriel won't get it.

"But not near enough."

"Really?" It's surprise, this time.

"Castiel suffered through reeducation a thousand and one times during his life. And a thousand and one times, he bounced back and did what he wanted anyway. It would be cowardly of not only myself, but of everyone, if we were to give up after only a single session."

Dean likes what he hears. He smiles. "The war's back on?"

"Not quite; but there are still many loyal to Castiel who wish to see his dream of free will for all angels come true. I've been doing my best to gather up the loyalists. We will avenge his death, Dean Winchester."

"I get Raphael."

Samandriel's eyes darkened, wisps of sadness curtaining the pupil. "Dean," he said, "an archangel can only be killed by another archangel."

"I'm working on another way, kid, don't worry about it. But I do need your help."

"Of course."

"Wait, really?" Dean steps back, surprised. Actually, sincerely, surprised. His heart balls up in his chest and he thinks for a moment he might cry. "You'll help me? Just like that?" After being struck with denial after denial from Bobby and Sam….

"Castiel told me you were a good man. He said were I ever to need your assistance, you would give it to me because I fought for him. I still trust in Castiel," a small smile dances on Samandriel's lips, "and therefore I trust you."

There it was again, The Look. Pure adoration, trust, love and he'd done nothing to deserve it. He was a miserable wretch, a drunk, a stoner, a man whore and overall just an ass. How was it that angels came to him? How was it that he got an angel to fall in love with him?

"I miss him," Samandriel says; it's a whisper, but it rings loudly in Dean's head. "Castiel wasn't much older than me—not in angelic terms, anyway—but he was so much more experienced in battle. He was a master! A legend, even before he went to Hell. You cannot imagine what an honor it was to be assigned to his garrison. I knew I wasn't worthy. I knew I would never be as good as Castiel. But—but Castiel took me aside and he told me he believed in me. He said he was proud to have me stand by his side. Can you believe that? He was proud of me? Look at me!"

Samandriel, angel of the lord, dressed in Alfie the teenager, still wore the weenie hut uniform that was too big, with a crooked hat and a goofy, crooked grin. He was cute in the same sense that puppies playing with babies were cute. A passing glance would not result in the thought that this was a creature of celestial intent, who had seen the wars and plagues of all human history, who fought demons and prayed to God and who was just an entire something that Dean would never be able to comprehend.

Cas never came off that way, either, but more of a socially crippled, horrifically introverted man than the "just a kid" vibe Samandriel rubbed off.

"What in all of creation did Castiel see in me?"

Dean remembers the sex, the alcohol, the violence and swearing and taking God's name in vain. He remembers selling his soul and going to Hell and he remembers Hell and Alastair and what he let them do to him and then remembers what he did. He remembers a bright light, a noble presence of peace and he remembers flying and then he remembers crying; crying as realization sunk in. He didn't know what was carrying him, but he saw Hell growing smaller underneath him, demonic fingers reaching towards him trying to pull him back down, but they couldn't reach high enough. He was being saved; he was being pulled from Hell, something was flying him out of Hell and he still hated flying, still was fucking terrified of it, but he was crying because he was being taken away from the one place he deserved to be.

"I've wondered the same thing for too many years," Dean says, swallowing.

Samandriel nods in understanding. He sighs and straightens up, tilting his chin towards the sky. "What is it you would have me do, Dean Winchester?"  
Dean's eyes sting. "I need you to bring Raphael to me."

Samandriel blinks and makes a small mewling noise. "Castiel was correct when he said you were stupidly impulsive. Dean. Raphael is the strongest force in Heaven. He is able to kill you with only a snap of his fingers. I cannot in good conscience let you put yourself in danger."

"You just said you would help me!"

"I will not help you get killed. Have you any idea how many of my brothers have died to Raphael's hand? It's innumerable. Your human brain would not be able to even begin to comprehend the lives lost. Castiel was very important to me and you were very important to him and I will not sit by idly, or worse, condone, you walking into danger."

"Why the hell not? It's my life! If I want to be stupid, I get to be stupid. If I want to walk to death, that's my choice!"

"No." A clap of thunder boomed; a flash of lightening raced across the sky. Dean sees Samandriel's wings on the ground, raised high above his head, stretching out ten feet each way. "I will not lose the last connection I have to my brother."

Dean understands. But, he still can't let go. "And I can't let the winged dick who killed him keep breathing. Alfie, please. I," Dean's voice cracks. "I don't wanna live in a world without Cas."

Samandriel looks like he's going to cry. It's the look Cas used to always get when he was down in the dumps. Eyes glazed over, lips stuck out in a gentle pout, an overall look of melancholy, but no tears ever fell.

"You lived many years before Castiel. You can live the rest of your life without him. He would want you to."

"No," Dean croaks. "I can't, Alfie. Cas took a part of me with him when he died."

"No he didn't. You are still you."

"He's in Heaven, right?" It's a burn that's been lingering on his heart and mind for over a year. "Crowley lied when he said he wasn't."

Samandriel looks up to the sky. His wing shadows relax. Dean can see each individual feather relax and unfurl. They're frayed, messy and tangled. "Father brought Castiel back from the dead the first time Raphael slew him. He brought Castiel back when Lucifer obliterated him. I believe there is a reason He did not resurrect Castiel a third time.

"You must understand, Dean Winchester. We are old. Infinitely old. Castiel was older than me, mind you, and I was there when Father breathed life into Adam. Just as humans wear down with age, so do we. There wasn't a moment in all of Castiel's existence when he wasn't a warrior. You should be able to emphasize with that, no? Castiel may have been a warrior in mind, but he wasn't one in heart. He always had too much heart and it always conflicted with everything he'd been taught. I think Castiel was tired of fighting. I think Father saw that and just as He has a plan for your kind, He must have a plan for us."

"That's a yes, right?" Dean asks.

Samandriel's eyes shine with a brilliant light and a shy smile dances on his lips. "Surely Castiel has been rewarded for his stupidity. Want kind of fool Falls from grace to oppose the Apocalypse, dies twice in his mission, but still succeeds isn't given a Heaven?"

"Did you just make a joke?"

"Not all of us are as hardnosed as Castiel."

Dean smiles. Hearing it from someone else, someone who surely knows more than he does, more than he could ever research, relaxes something in him he didn't know was twisted. "Thanks, Alfie."

The smile quickly melts from Samandriel's face. "Please do not do anything stupid. Don't let my brother's death be in vain."

And then with a flap of his wings, Samandriel is gone. Dean stands outside a bit longer, staring up at the sky and stars.

He wishes he could just let go like Samandriel wants. Too bad it's not in his genes. "Raphael!" He screams at the sky till his throat is raw. "Get your cowardly ass down here and talk to me! Dick!"

888888

Dean wishes he had his camera with him. This moment is surely picture perfect if such a thing exists. He doesn't think he's ever seen Cas this unamused and it's actually pretty funny.

"You called me for what?"

Dean clears his throat and sets up the shot glasses on the mini table in the hotel room. "For drinks."

Somewhere in the corner of the room, Sam is rolling his eyes. Dean doesn't need to see Sam's face to know what it looks like, it radiates off him like a bad smell. Bitch, he thinks bitterly.

"Dean," Cas says, in that exasperated, worn down, I'm-sick-of-your-shit tone he's been using so often these days, "I am in the middle of the most disastrous Heavenly war since Lucifer's Fall. I have angels looking to me for guidance on my right and angels who want to kill me on my left. Balthazar's breathing down my neck on one end, you're pulling down my collar at the other- I do not have time "for drinks"."

Dean adds tracking down the son of a bitch who taught Cas finger quotes and beating the crap out of him to his mental list of things-to-do. Then he realizes that Cas probably learned it from him, so he amends the note so that he'll just beat himself up later. "Is there some kind of celestial battle going on right now?"

"No, but—"

"But nothing. Sit down. We're gonna have fun tonight."

"Dean—"

"Told you this was a stupid idea," Sam says.

"Shut up, bitch," to Cas he turns and says, "Ten minutes. Please."

The eye roll Cas gives him in return he probably learned from Sam. Dean makes plans to beat Sam up when he beats himself up. But Cas begrudges him and sits down.

"Okay," Dean says as he pours himself and Cas a shot glass. "We're gonna play a game. Never Have I Ever."

"Oh my god," Sam whines, "Dean, don't turn the angel into a frat boy! That's, like, the eleventh commandment I'm sure. Thou shalt not partake in inebriation with an angel of the lord and play dumb college games. Look it up, it's in the Bible."

"What is a frat boy?" Cas asks.

"It's just a term for the guys who used to give Sam swirlyes back when he was a college dweeb."

Cas stares at him blankly. "What is a swirly?"

"Follow me, I'll show you."

"Dean!"

"Shut your face, Sammy, it was only a joke! Okay, Cas, here's how you play. I'll say something I've never done and if you have done it, you have to take a shot. If you haven't done it either, I take the shot. Then we switch. Like, never have I ever given an angel of the lord a swirly."

Cas blinks at him.

"Okay, you haven't done it, either. So I take the shot." He throws his head back and downs his drink, wincing as the burn runs down his throat. He coughs slightly. "So, now you say something you haven't ever done."

"Is the point of the game to suggest something you know your opponent has done?"

"If you wanna be a bastard about it, yeah."

"Oh. Okay. Um. Never have I ever participated in the exercise of human fornication."

Dean snorts, but takes his shot without complaint. His head begins to spin. Already? he thinks. "Uh, good. Well, okay, not good—not that you're not getting how to play the game, looks like you've got the hang of it. Don't worry buddy, we'll get you laid one of these days."

"I want nothing to do with this," Sam says.

Dean ignores him. "You're not allowed to die until you get laid, bud."

In any other situation, the look that appears on Cas's face would've been priceless. Who knew an angel was capable of total and complete abject terror—in the face of sex of all the things? "Dean, please do not take me to another den of iniquity."

"'Den of iniquity'?" Sam asks. "Does he mean a brothel? Dean, when did you take Cas to a brothel?"

Dean takes another shot just for the hell of it. "After Lucifer rose and you ditched us." He chortles at the memory; Cas trembling as Chasity ran her fingers across his clavicle, squeezing her arms together so that her boobs popped out of her shirt, Cas doing everything he could to look away. "You should've been there, Sam, he was this close to crying!"

"It was an incredibly traumatizing experience," Cas agrees.

"Dean! You tried to whore Cas out to a whore?"

"Whore's a bit a harsh, don't ya think Sammy? In the end, he made her cry to get out of it. We got kicked out." Dean laughs. "Best fifty bucks I've ever spent. Okay, so now that I know what game you're playing, never have I ever seen the Earth being created."

Cas still left his first shot untouched.

"Really dude?" Sam asks. "You weren't there when God created the Heavens and the Earth and all that?"

"No," Cas says. "Only the archangels were created on the First Day. I wasn't created until the Fifth. Although technically I suppose they weren't really days. Not how you count days anyway."

"Really? How long were the days actually?"

"A thousand years, more or less. Or so Gabriel claimed. He's not the most trustworthy to begin with, but neither Michael nor Lucifer ever denied what he said."

"Wow," Sam says.

Dean stares at Cas, his throat thick, because he's suddenly reminded of just old Castiel is. How much he's must have seen, Dean thinks.

"For someone older than dirt, literally," Dean says, "you sure haven't done much. You stink at this game." Dean's just avoiding having to take another shot because he's already hammered. It must be age finally getting to him. He used to be able to down half a dozen shots within an hour before his head spun, and that was with stuff much stronger than this. God, when did he become such a lightweight? He decides to silently blame Sam, because Sam's always bitched about his drinking and has not so discreetly left AA pamphlets in the car windshield before, or even worse, watered down his booze.

"My apologies," Cas says.

He's doing it again, staring off into space. He's there, but not actually there, flooded down by whatever worries and stresses have tied themselves to his ankles. They're pulling him down hard and fast and Dean wants nothing more than to dive in after Cas and help pull him up, breach the surface and just breath. But he can't chase after Cas fast enough; Cas is drowning faster than Dean can swim.

"What's wrong, Cas?" He asks.

Cas sighs and looks despondently at his shot glass before he downs it. "Raphael has called a ceasefire."

"That's good news, ain't it?"

"He has requested an audience with me to discuss…everything."

The bland, faded colors of the motel room are stripped away and all Dean can see is red; there's a loud thumping at the back of his head and he's not sure if it's because he's drunk or because he's angry or because of a combination of the two. "You're not going to go, are you?"

Cas circles the rim of his empty glass with his thumb.

"Cas."

"I have no other option, Dean. If I do not go, the fighting will resume and more of my brothers and sisters will die."

Dean gets it. He really does. He would do (and has done) anything for his family, the few people he's allowed into his life and heart. Cas is part of that now. Dean can't reprimand Cas for feeling the way he does, he'd be a hypocrite.

But he's angry. Damn it, why should Cas have to risk his life for the angels of all things? They aren't his family, not really. Not the way that Dean and Sam and Bobby are. The angels threw Cas out, kicked him to the curb, disowned him. They kidnapped and tortured him and they killed him and not one of them did a damn thing to help him. Why should Cas care about their lives when they didn't give a damn about his?

But.

Blood is blood. No matter what.

"You're angry with me," Cas says quietly.

"I'm not angry with you," Dean says, hurt that Cas feels that way. "I'm angry with the situation. I don't think you should go."

Cas. Alone. With Raphael. The being who currently wanted to kill him. The being who had killed him once before. It was a recipe for disaster. And death.

"I don't have a choice, Dean." Cas's voice raises in anger, frustration, weariness.

"Then we'll go with you."

The lights in the motel go off with a violent spark and it's all black for two heart beats before they come back on with a harsh whine.

"Absolutely not." Cas's voice booms with a ferocity that would make John Winchester crap his pants. It's authoritative, stern, and-if Dean is going to be completely honest—terrifying.

Cas sighs and his eyes soften. "I am doing this to protect you. The both of you. Being in the same vicinity of Raphael would be counterintuitive."

"I'm just worried about you, man."

"I know."

Dean swallows. "Promise me you won't go alone, at least. Take one of your angels pals with you. Your second in command guy, the douche bag—"

"Balthazar," Cas says.

"Yeah, him. He'll go with you, right?" Dean has only met Balthazar a few times. He hates the other angel with a passion. He's arrogant, rude, snarky, a plethora of sarcasm that knows no depths. But, he genuinely seems to care about Cas.

"If I were to ask him."

"Good," Dean says. "Then you'll ask him."

"But Balthazar has already sacrificed so much for me, Dean."

"I think he owes you for the whole faking his death thing."

Dean can't imagine anyone doing that to someone they loved. From what little he understood of Cas's relationship with Balthazar, they had been friends. _Best Friends._ Balthazar had been Cas's only friend in all of Heaven for all of forever before Cas went to Hell. And then Lucifer rose and Balthazar thought it the perfect time to ditch the Apocalypse (and Cas) and fuck around on Earth.

In the end, Balthazar left Cas, when Cas needed him most. Discovering Balthazar wasn't dead, but in fact alive and healthy, having the time of his existence partying and drinking and "fornicating" as Cas had put it, had devastated Cas.

There was no way around it, Balthazar owed Cas. If Cas was too chicken to cash in on that favor, Dean would have no issues doing for him. Maybe he'd punch Balthazar in the face while he was at it, just for good measure. The broken hand he'd get in the scuffle would so be worth it.

"Okay," Cas says in a sigh, "I will ask Balthazar."

Words echo inside Dean's mind, his confrontation with Raphael those months ago replaying in a loop. Cas would do anything Dean asked him. "You gonna fly off now?"

"Do you want me to "fly off"?"

"No." The word rolls of Dean's tongue faster than he likes. No, he doesn't want Cas to fly off, not ever. He wants Cas to stay and he wishes there was something he could do to make Cas stay. He'd tie Cas down and never let the fucker out of his sight to make sure Cas stayed.

But he couldn't do that. As much as Dean wants it, he knows that Cas couldn't stay. He has people to see, places to be, demons to smite and archangels to fight. Priorities above Dean. And they should be above Dean. Dean wasn't more important than a Heavenly Civil War; he already had free will, he didn't need it be taught to him like all the other angels. No, Cas was, in fact, the new sheriff in town and frankly the angels need him.

Dean needs him too (not that he'd admit it out loud) but in a different way. In a way that can wait. He likes to imagine that once this war is over and Cas had won (because would win damn it) that Cas would stay. Forever.

Good things come to those who wait. Dean can wait a little longer if it means in the long run that he can keep Cas forever.

"But," Dean says, "you're needed elsewhere. You've got more important places to be anyways."

"I promise, Dean," and there it is, that solemn, soul piercing gaze, that unwavering loyalty, that earnest sincerity. It's too much at once and Dean feels like it's choking him. That stare is the closest thing he's ever gonna get to see the real Cas, the being inside the meat suit that used to be James Novak. "When the war is over, I would very much like to stay here, with you and Sam. If that is all right."

It hurts that Cas feels like he has to ask permission to stay with them, but Dean can't blame him either. Dude got kicked out of the Heavenly Country Club he'd been a member of for fucking ever, Dean can understand where he might feel a little hesitant in feeling like part of a family again.

Still, this is a chick flick moment. Which Dean does not do. Especially when Sam is in the room, eavesdropping like the little bastard he is. "I don't know, man, you're gonna have to ask Sam about that one. You got hypoallergenic feathers, right? Brat's on some kind of health kick."

"Dean!" Sam yells from across the room. He sighs and Dean hears him close his laptop. "Don't mind him, Cas, he's just being a dumbass."

"Bitch."

"Asswad."

Cas watches the exchange with mild interest, but much confusion. Dean decides the first thing he's going to do is teach Cas how to properly prepare insults. It'll be a fun night.

But when Cas flinches and glances up the ceiling, Dean's heart sinks. There is no option to stay a little longer. The choice has just been taken away from Cas.

"You gotta go?"

"I'm sorry."

Dean sighs. "Nah, don't worry about it. Just. Be careful."

"Of course, Dean."

And then Cas is gone.

And Dean just knows he's going to have a bitch of a hangover in the morning.

8888888

He doesn't know what time it is, but he would recognize that sound anywhere. He shoots straight up, gun already in his hand out of habit and pointed at the noise. It's only with a miniscule shred of self control that he doesn't pull the trigger and put a bullet between Samandriel's eyes. Not that it'd hurt him, but it would definitely wake Sam and Bobby up and it would lead to a boiling conversation he doesn't want to have.

"Alfie," he groans, falling back onto the bed. The pillows and sheets bounce up with his applied weight and he glances over at the bedside clock to learn that it's just after two in the morning. "I didn't order a wake up call."

"I spoke with Raphael."

Dean's sitting up again.

Samandriel is tucked away into the corner of the room, but his gaze is as piercing as ever. His shoulders are drawn tightly together though; he's standing stiffer than usual and his feet are pointed inwards. Dean thinks the worst.

"Are you doing all right, Samandriel? You don't look so good."

"I am fine," he says through gritted teeth.

"No you ain't. Did you get reeducated again?"

"Raphael asked me to deliver a message to you, Dean," Samandriel says. Dean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Denial is confirmation.

"Yeah?" Dean smacks his lips. He's not going to make Samandriel talk about anything he doesn't want too. He's not going to point out the evasion. He knows better than anyone what torture is and what it does to a person. And an angel. (_angels). _Who is he to force Samandriel into that conversation, especially when Samandriel suffered it for him? "What'd Rat-phael says?"

"He says, 'Catch me if you can'."

Samandriel is gone. The air is left feeling thicker.


	8. Part Seven

_AN: So I fucked up last time-this little section was supposed to be a part of last chapter, but I left it off because last chapter was getting too long. I hope it doesn't disrupt the flow to have this much shorter chapter here. Oh well.  
_

_TW: Discussions of rape. _

"Dean? How long have you been up?" Sam's voice somehow still manages to sound bitchy as he yawns when he steps down the staircase.

Dean's eyes are bloodshot, his hair sticking up in all directions. His fingers ache from all the note writing and map drawing. At Sam's question, he looks at the clock on the oven. 8: 56.

"Not long," Dean says, reaching for his cup of coffee that may be a little over half whiskey. "Hey, Sammy—did you know that last week this town in Florida had a hundred births all the same night? Just about every pregnant woman's water broke, all around the same time too—and," Dean pulls up the web page from Sam's computer—he's read it twelve times now, he knows it by heart, but he still skims, "at least ten of the kids were six to ten weeks premature, but besides being underweight, they were healthy. Kind of strange, isn't it? Ominous?"

"What are you getting at, Dean?"

"I'm just saying—it sounds like the kind of thing we should check out." He runs a hand through his hair and is disgusted by the grease that coats his fingers. When was the last time he showered? He can't even begin to remember.

Sam enters the living room, a cup of virgin coffee in hand. He walks over to the map Dean has laid out. "What's this about, Dean?"

"It's about the family business, Sammy. Saving people. Hunting things. Nothing short of a nuclear disaster can make one hundred women go into labor all in the same night. I checked, and it wasn't even a full moon!"

"A bunch of kids being born doesn't exactly sound like our thing, Dean. No one got hurt, did they? I mean, it's Florida, halfway across the country for not a lot of information for a hunt that we're not even sure is a hunt."

"Okay," Dean blanches. "Okay, well, how about this?" He shoves another article towards Sam. "Juliana Fetcher, Lexington, South Carolina. Sixteen year old kid, got a tumor the size of an orange in her brain, inoperable. Family didn't want to do chemo and docs give her six months. Kid goes to a routine appointment, gets an MRI and look—"

"No tumor," Sam scoffs.

"Docs calling it a miracle. Now, I ain't no physician, but tumors don't just vanish, especially not untreated ones."

"No, they don't."

"Good, then let's pack up Baby and hit the road to ole South Cackalackey."

"It's still not our thing, though, Dean."

"How is it not our thing, Sammy? Vanishing cancer, dude!"

"Got anything else, Dean?

Dean throws the papers he's printed out during the night at Sam. "Austin, Texas," he screams, "guy gets struck by lightening twenty years ago, stuck in a coma. Wakes up two days ago. Not a speck of brain damage! Topeka, Kansas, hundreds of pets that have disappeared over the last two years suddenly show up on their owner's doorsteps. Alaska wilderness, bush pilot crash lands. No cell phone, no radio reception, he hikes for three days. Dude's got no food, no water, and his clothes got ruined in the crash. He makes it back to Juno only dehydrated."

Sam shuffles through all the other articles, bottom lip tucked in under his teeth. "These are all good things, why—oh, Dean."

"I've checked all the dates ten times. He's going clockwise around the country Sam. Which means he should be here sometime soon."

"Dean, you can't—this isn't—these are all coincidences, okay? There's nothing supernatural about any of it. Especially not angels."

"You don't know that."

"We haven't heard anything about angels in almost two years, Dean. Why would they just start popping out now? Especially to do miracles?"

"Not "they", one specific angel."

"You've finally lost it, haven't you?" Sam's voice is low and cracked. "I mean, I know it happens to every hunter eventually, but I thought you still had a good few years left, Dean."

"I," Dean spits out, fury burning on his tongue, "am not crazy! Samandriel came to me last night—Raphael wants me to find him, he's goading me and these are the bread crumbs!"

"Even if that were true, don't you realize that is a very bad thing, Dean? I mean, he's an archangel. You saw yourself how powerful he is. He can look at you the wrong way and you'll be painted all over the walls!"

"He could've killed me any time he wanted. If he wanted me dead, Sam, I'd be dead."

"You've been praying to him haven't you? Oh, Dean," Sam's head falls and he buries his face in his hands. "This is like Crowley all over again." His voice his shaky—he's crying, Dean realizes—he made Sam cry _again_ and his own throat tightens at that thought.

It's not the same, though. Sam's wrong about that. Crowley's a bastard, but he is not dangerous, not at Raphael's level. Besides, Dean doesn't have any reason to be angry at Crowley. Every iota of revenge in his being is honed onto Raphael and that vengeance makes him stronger.

"You got your revenge," Dean says. Sam looks up at him, face glued to his hair by the tear streaks, his eyes red rimmed. "Azazel is dead. He's in Hell. Jessica's in Heaven. All's well that end's well, ain't it? I want mine. And not just for me and not just for Cas, but for all the other angels too, every single one of them that got their fucking brains drilled into because they had the courage to stand up and say 'fuck this'. Cas, Samandriel, Balthazar, Anna—every angel that stood by Cas's side because they were done with praying to an absent God and they were done with being given orders with no explanation behind them and they just wanted to be able to make a choice. I want to feel Raphael's blood on my hands, I want him to scream and I want him to look me in the eye as I kill him and know that it's Dean Winchester that's killing him.

"I know how to kill him. It's just about finding him."

Sam's head shoots up suddenly. He's looking past Dean and his face drains of all color.

"Oh, don't worry," a deep, familiar voice drawls, "It's I who has found you."

Dean's turned around and unsheathed the angel blade in an instant—in another he has it buried hilt deep into Raphael's chest.

Raphael glares at him. "Did you really expect Castiel's toothpick to be enough to kill me, Dean Winchester?"

Dean scoffs and shrugs. "It was worth a shot."

"If you have even the slightest fraction of an iota of one single brain cell, you would be smart to pull it out."

"Sorry," Dean says, "but I'm a drop out."

Raphael grips the hilt of the blade and slowly pulls it out before he drops it unceremoniously to the floor where it falls with a single clack.

"You will discontinue your prayers, Dean Winchester. I have discovered your voice to be incredibly grating against my consciousness."

"Yeah? It distract you from lobotomizing sweet little angels like Alfie?"

"On the contrary, I find it encourages me to press the drill just a little bit deeper."

The room is spinning, the colors are bleeding away and Sam isn't there anymore. It's just Dean and Raphael—there's nothing else and no one else and there never has been and there never will be, but Dean knows he needs to kill this thing.

"Killing you," Raphael continues, "would be pointless. It would take no effort on my part and it would not bring me any satisfaction. Instead, I would find myself with quite a number of angels who would become grieved by your death. I'd rather not have to reeducate them all again."

"Being God ain't all it's cracked up to be, huh."

Behind him, Sam makes a small noise. Dean wonders why he hasn't said anything yet, but then the smirk from Raphael answers all questions. Whatever, Dean thinks. He's not hurting Sam, not really, and he wants to talk to Raphael without Sam interrupting anyway.

"Oh no, it's even better than I had ever allowed myself to imagine. You understand, yes, what it is like for people to bow to you and kiss your feet?"

"Because they're scared shitless."

"Like that matters."

"Yeah? Cas never bowed to you. Not even after all those times you "reeducated" him. Bet that irked your feather tips, didn't it?"

"Castiel was born defective. Michael should've euthanized him the moment he began to show signs of his affections. He was an abomination and proof that God no longer cared that He allowed Castiel to live as long as he did. I will a much kinder God than Father ever was."

Dean isn't able to bite down on his tongue. He has all these questions and he needs to know. "Did you feel like _God _when you tied him down and let those demons rape him?"

Sam makes another noise. Dean doesn't dare stray his glance away from Raphael.

"Castiel wanted to be human. It only seemed fit that he should be initiated with humanity's original sin."

"Rape is not sex."

"Because sex is about love? Do you believe that when Adam and Eve fornicated in the Garden, when they tainted the Hallowed grounds they were ordered to care for, with their blood and seed it was because they loved each other? They were mud monkeys, just as you and every other lowly human that walks this Earth. How many women have you copulated with that you did not love in the throes of drunken passion? Does that not count as sex?

"Sex is not about love at all. It is a disgusting, primal, _human_ urge used meant solely for reproduction, but used for pleasure. That's what you mud monkeys are all about, correct? 'Blowing coke and jumping on the bed'? Balthazar Fell to that level, committed a multitude of sins. He became as good as you the moment he laid a foot on Earth and fornicated with his first woman. And since he was such good friends with Castiel…"

Raphael takes a step forward, forcing Dean back. "You should not believe what Samandriel told you. He is young still, untrained, confused and immature. Castiel is not in Heaven. Even if angels did own souls, do you truly believe that God would allow Castiel into such a paradise? He rebelled and Fell and killed angels to stop His rightful plan. Frankly, a state of nonexistence is more than he deserves. Painless. Were I in charge of it, I'd throw him down into the Cage with Michael and Lucifer and lock it for eternity. There would be no seals to let him out. He rather angered the eldest with his disobedience, did he not?

"Do not contact me again, Dean Winchester. I have more important duties to attend to than to chastise Castiel's little mice and next time I'll spare the energy of talking with you and just kill you instead. And your brother. And Robert Singer. Or, I could simply revoke your brother's soul. Yes, I was perhaps overtly generous when I gifted it back, wasn't I? It would be no undue burden to recall it. Continue to contact me, and Samuel will find his soul back in Hell. Goodbye."

Raphael is gone. Sam gasps and is by his side in an instant, babbling, questions flowing from his mouth like water—"Raphael is God now?" "He's been torturing all of Cas's army?" "Cas was raped?" "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

Dean doesn't answer. He looks down. On the floor is Cas's angel blade, shiny red. He picks it up and holds it to the light, the rising sun pouring in from outside. The blade feels warmer and it sparkles and the sun rays catch the blood.

Archangel blood.

Dean begins to laugh.


	9. Interlude: Bobby

AN: What better way to celebrate Bobby's guest appearance on Supernatural tonight than a Bobby Interlude?

_interlude_

If Bobby Singer could take back just one decision—one single decision—that he'd made in his entire life, all sixty years of it, he would go back and tell Karen that he wanted kids too. Had he known that awful, terrible fight, that ended with her cut and drunk and crying would be the last one they ever had, he never would've had it. He would've hugged her and kissed her and said "Of course, beautiful, I've always wanted to be a father" and whatever other lies spilled past his lips just to keep her happy and laughing so she wouldn't have had to spend her last three days absolutely miserable.

In the end, she still died for nothing. Because Bobby Singer did end up becoming a father. Johnathon Winchester had been a friend only in the most basic of terms, but God if Bobby didn't try not to become attached to that little snot nosed brat and his dopey eyed baby brother that trailed behind John Winchester's coat tails. Bobby could see so much of himself in Dean and so much of his own father in John Winchester. Bobby still recalled a six year old Dean sitting on his kitchen floor polishing off his father's guns, stopping every couple of minutes to shove a spoonful of oatmeal into Sam's mouth. Bobby didn't consider himself cultured by any means, but that was probably the most poetic thing he'd ever seen in his life.

He wasn't sure how he somehow became Designated Winchester Babysitter, but he soon discovered that he didn't mind having the boys over. In his mind, they were safest with him, away from their deranged, grieving father who expected too much out of one son would couldn't even spell his last name yet and the other who could still only barely walk and still said Bean instead of Dean. They weren't even children yet, they were still babies and Dean should've been in school not traveling around in their father's death trap of car all around the country hunting monsters. Bobby knew things had gone too far when, once while he was making up the bed Dean always slept in, he found a loaded pistol tucked underneath the boy's pillow. A six year old was packing heat underneath his pillow and when Bobby had asked him about it, Dean had only looked up at him and said "Daddy says you can never let your guard down, '_specially _when you're sleeping 'cause otherwise the monsters will eat you!" He said it so matter of factly too, with an eye roll added just for extra flavor, like Bobby was the crazy one because he didn't keep a loaded pistol with him twenty four seven.

The scariest part was that when Bobby looked at John Winchester, he saw the man he could've become. Maybe the man he should've become. Because Karen's death had been so horrifically, horrendously, terribly awful and it ripped out a part of him and ate it right there in front of him. It was scary to see that Bobby could have just as easily become that angry, dunked himself into that much self-loathing and drank himself that far to the edge of insanity. It was only the memories of his own father that held him back by just a thread. The desire to be something better. He killed his first monster when he was just twelve years old to protect his mother and until Karen's death he hadn't needed to ever protect anyone else.

But then all of a sudden he had two little boys and a monster that was all too familiar, but what could he do about it? Who was he to tell John Winchester how to raise his boys?

Bobby savored the weeks when John Winchester would drop off Sam and Dean with him because then the boys were within his sight and he knew for sure that they got at least two meals a day and had a bed to sleep in and someone to teach Dean how to read and write and calm him down if he had a nightmare and to comfort him if he wet the bed instead of screaming at him and hitting him like he knew John Winchester did. Sam, he discovered, he didn't even have to worry about because Dean took care of Sam like he was his own kid and that twisted Bobby's stomach onto a tight knot. Dean got the short end of the stick—it wasn't fair to put a little kid through all the shit John Winchester drug his sons through, but it especially wasn't fair to expect Dean to be a parent to his own brother.

But Bobby watched as Dean grew into a man. A damn decent man and he'd meant it when he had told Dean he was a better man than his daddy ever was. At the news of John Winchester's death, Bobby hadn't been able to make himself shed a single tear. Not for John at least. He had cried, of joy, when he learned that Sam and Dean were okay. Because goddamnit they were his kids. He raised them all on his own and it was in his home where they had their birthdays and Christmases and it was his photo albums that were overflowed and he was the one to talk Dean through his first crush and when Sam couldn't go to Dean for something, he went to Bobby.

Bobby didn't doubt that John Winchester loved his sons, the man just didn't know how to show affection and kindness. But that didn't excuse any of his actions.

Because Dean is his son, Bobby's heart breaks with Dean's. It wasn't fair for them to still lose so much. He lost Karen, the love of his life, and he knew that Sam's girlfriend had been killed too and that Sam had been about to ask that girl to marry him and he had hoped that Dean would be spared that fate but he wasn't and it just was not fair.

Sure, Bobby had been wary of Castiel at first, but who wouldn't be? Not only was he not human, he was an angel, something Bobby hadn't even known existed until Castiel appeared in his barn that bitter night. But even if he was wary, Bobby was still damn grateful, grateful beyond anything he can ever enunciate because "thanks" just didn't seem enough to cover pulling his kid outta Hell.

And over time Bobby found himself growing fond of Castiel. The poor kid was in the same boat Sam and Dean had been in for years, a Father who was distant and expected too much and he was a son more than eager to please, to just hear someone say 'I'm damn proud of ya'. He didn't know the extent of Dean's relationship with Castiel—Lord knows the eye sex alone was enough to make even the most romantic of teenage girls puke her stomach out—but other than that they always seemed to just dance around each other.

In the end, it doesn't matter, Bobby decides. Because Dean had loved Castiel and now Castiel was dead. Dead like his mother and father and Pamela and Ash and Ellen and Jo. Dead like Karen. Dead like Jess.

And when Bobby walks down his staircase that morning, woken up by Sam's yelling and Dean's laughter as they fight over a bloodied angel blade, he stares in the living room and sees not his boys, but the ever present ghost of John Winchester.

_end interlude _


	10. Part Eight

_School and work got me hostage right now. The good news though is that school is over in just a few weeks, so once it's out, I'm going to focus all attention into finishing this. Thank you guys for all your patience._

"Dean," Sam says his name slowly, like he's spelling it out. His voice is calm, he's bent down and his hands are always visible, with palms facing outwards. "Dean, give it to me."

"Fat chance." Dean clutches the blade to his chest. The blood is warm and sticky. It's the most important ingredient. He can find everything else now; the one ingredient he had been most worried about is now laying calmly in his hands, pulsing under his fingertips.

"Boy," Bobby says. Unlike Sam's he's leering over Dean, arms crossed, lips curled over his teeth, "you better listen to your brother. Give it up before you hurt yourself."

"The only thing I'm gonna hurt is an oversized dick with wings."

"How?" Sam says. "You buried that thing in his heart, Dean, and he didn't even blink. We've been over this, we can't kill him. And since we're not on his radar, let's stay off. I really don't want to deal with another pissed off archangel."

"But we can kill him!" Dean flashes the blade to Sam, the blood shining with the sunlight that hits it. "'If it bleeds, we can kill it'! We just need to find the right weapon, Sammy. And now that we have this, we can make it!"

"Boy, you've finally gone off the deep end, ain't ya?"

"Cas told us how to make an angel blade, Bobby. We can make an angel blade and it'll be an archangel blade and we can kill him!"

"How in God's name are you gonna make an angel blade, Dean?" Bobby asks.

"Not in God's name," Dean says, his lips spilling with the bitterness of his soul. He damned whatever deadbeat, sadistic God would let this any of this happen. "Cas told us how to make it; we got the blood, now we need silver."

"And where are you gonna find silver? None of us are exactly rollin' in dough."

"I'll figure it out."

"You're not stealing anything," Sam says. "Besides, Cas also said he had to 'incorporate the element of air'. How do you plan on doing that? You're terrified of flying."

"I'll figure that out when I get to it. One step at a time, Sam."

"Listen to yourself, Dean."

"I am listening to myself! And what I'm hearing is that I'm the only one even trying to avenge—"

"Stop right there, Dean," Sam snaps. "Don't you dare insinuate that I don't care that Cas is dead. He was my friend, Dean!"

"You sure have a shitty way of showing it."

"Because I'm not drowning myself in alcohol? Because I don't spend every waking moment focused on revenge and anger, I don't care that Cas is dead? How dare you. How….how dare you! Cas saved our asses, because of him we left that place with our lives; excuse me for trying to do something with mine."

"Sam," Bobby says, his voice low and wary.

"And you know what, Dean? I didn't get my revenge. You killed Yellow Eyes. That should've been my kill and you know it. So fuck you."

"Sam," Bobby's voice lowers even further; he puts a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder, but Sam yanks out of Bobby's grip.

"You want to kill yourself? Fine. But don't make me watch."

"The only thing I'm going to kill is an archangel! See Sam, you're not listening to me!"

"Oh my god," Sam says and rubs his face. He looks to Bobby. "I can't do this. Not…not right now."

Sam leaves Bobby's house with a slamming door behind him. Dean just sighs and holds the blade even tighter to his chest. Bobby makes a motion to try and grab at it again, but then he stops and groans.

"You know what, Dean?" Bobby says. "I'm done. Do whatever the hell you want."

He knows he's dreaming. He can tell by how heavy the air hangs.

And then of course, there's the silhouette of Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned towards him. But he looks different; he's not wearing his coat, Dean notices, which is stupid, because of course Cas isn't wearing his coat; Dean has it.

Dean used to dream of Hell; he used to dream of the fire and chains and whips and he'd wake in panic, covered in sweat and Cas would be sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at him in his Castiel-way, somber, confused and depressed. Then Cas started to take them away, replace them with something pleasant and walk around in them. Dean used to yell at Cas for that—he didn't want Cas in his head- and Cas eventually stopped, but though he'd never admit it, Dean began to miss it almost immediately.

Maybe, Dean foolishly let's himself think, maybe Cas is doing it again. Maybe these last two years, these horrible horrible years, were only a dream and Cas is taking them away again.

And the Cas sitting on his bed has that same expression and Dean's heart is taken in a vice because…this is the dream. He held Cas as he died. Dean witnessed his death. And the reminder of what he had…of what Castiel used to do for him…

But his heart wants, it wants so badly that Dean can't help himself even though he knows it's a bad idea. He reaches out and puts a hand on Dream Cas's shoulder.

"Lay down with me," his voice is a harsh whisper, worn down with alcohol and cigarettes. He coaxes Dream Cas backwards and then they're laying down, facing each other, Dream Cas staring at him in that all too familiar way, Dean's fingers curled in his hair; his eyes burn.

"I miss you," he says. His stomach curls inwards, his heart is in his throat and the air around him is polluted. But Cas is here, even if it really isn't him. His presence, his aura…it almost transcends the boundary of life and death. Dean wants to fall into Dream Cas's warmth. He buries himself in Dream Cas's chest, and he feels Dream Cas's chin come to rest down on his head.

"I'm really sorry," Dean mumbles, "I know I'm taking a long time, buddy, but I'm getting there. Raphael's going to die and I'm going to kill him. You're watching me, ain't ya? You know I'm trying."

Dean's fingers curl in the fabric of Dream Cas's shirt.

"Sam doesn't think it'll work. But he's a bitch, what does he know? He won't even try. He thinks I'm tarnishing your memory or some bullshit like that by even trying. You know that girlfriend of his, that Azazel killed? Jess? I only met her the one time, but I could tell he was in love with her and when she died, all he did was bitch about avenging her; but when I try to do it, suddenly, it's wrong. The difference between him and me though is that Sam's just talk. I'll actually do what I say I'm gonna do. He thinks he's so smart, Mr. Full Ride, Mr. College, Mr. Perfect Score on my LSATs, but really he's a moron; he doesn't understand that I have to do this.

"You understand, don't you?"

Dream Cas's breath is warm on the back of Dean's neck. It feels nice, but Dean forces himself out of the Cas cocoon to look in his eyes. "Say something? I miss talking with you. I, I really miss you."

A smile tugs at the corners of Cas's lips, and Dean doesn't know why, but everything about it is wrong.

"Is this," a sound that is not Cas's voice drawls from Cas's lips, "what you imagine you and him would've been?"

Dean's sitting up and on the opposite side of the bed in a second. Anger is all he knows. "You're a bigger bastard than I thought."

"I told you," Raphael sits up, but he's still wearing Cas's image and his voice from Cas's face is wrong, "that he was incapable of loving you. He saw the mountains grow; he saw the birth of species and their extinction. He was slaying demons before he spoke his first words. Do you really think he would've put up with your trivial needs for affection?"

"He loved me." It doesn't matter what anyone ever says; Dean knows the truth.

_I am hunted, I rebelled, and I did it, all of it—for you. _

No, nothing anyone, not even the biggest dick with wings says will ever convince Dean otherwise.

Raphael blinked at him through Cas's eyes. "You have no idea how you tormented him." A hand reaches out, the back of the palm rests softly on Dean's cheek. "But I know. I held his thoughts in my hand. Dean Winchester, can you comprehend eternity? I sincerely doubt it. Have you any idea how old Castiel was when he first met you?"

Raphael sweeps Dean with a single swoop of Cas's eyes. "How much longer do you think you have to live? Were you a normal human, I would say forty years. But you are not a normal, healthy human, you are a hunter. Through my eyes, hunters do not live for very long, it is such a violent, bloody existence. Look at your mother and father for proof. Let's be generous, though, and assume you would live for another twenty years. Twenty more years you would've spent with him. Twenty years to a being who lived for tens of thousands, you would give him twenty and then you would die—a premature, bloody, violent death- and where would that have left Castiel? Alone and Fallen, where he would remain for eternity. Unable to return to Heaven, but having nothing left for him on Earth. Your mortality was his true nemesis and you never even noticed. What a pity, that he stood to Lucifer and Michael, spat in the face of Zachariah and myself, only for his unstoppable enemy to finally reveal itself. And, behold! It is you; you that he gave up even Heaven for, was the enemy that was too much."

Raphael frowns, then, and wears that Castiel pout. "I have pondered the idea that he allowed himself to be killed because he could not bear the thought of you dying first."

That does it for Dean. He lunges at Raphael. Raphael moves and Dean topples to the floor and even though it's a dream it hurts. He looks back over his shoulder. Raphael is standing by him, glaring down.

"Get out of my head," Dean growls. "Get out!"

He remembers something Cas said, when they first met. Angels needed consent.

"I do not give consent," he says, the words drawing blood from his lips, "I don't want you here-get out of my head!"

"How queer," Raphael says, cocking his head. "It is like a memory. Perhaps you and Castiel were in love, you two are so very much alike in many ways."

The implication of those words force Dean to gnash his teeth together to keep from crying out. How dare he, how dare he! He lunges for Raphael again and then—

And then he's awake, gasping for breath, hands clamped tightly on the sweat soaked sheets. The room is empty, except for him. He can hear Bobby snoring through the wall behind him; he can hear Sam's fingers clacking against his keyboard underneath him. Dean looks to the bedside clock and it's only two in the morning, but he doesn't think he'll be able to fall back asleep even if he wanted to.

He needs to kill something, he has to kill something; if he doesn't, he'll go mad. He gets out of bed and follows the sound Sam leaves. Sam looks up at him and—when did Sam start to look so old?

"That a hunt?" Dean says, pointing towards Sam's computer. They're not going to talk about this afternoon, Dean knows. That's fine with him. He doesn't want to talk about it, he wants to do something, but he can't kill Raphael until he finishes the archangel blade and he can't do that until he has all the supplies, but he needs to kill something now.

"Maybe," Sam says, rubbing at his face. The blue glow of his computer screen reflects in his eyes. "Uh, this farmer in Helena, Montana got about half his herd stolen and the police found a couple of the dead bodies exsanguinated with the tongue and eyes cut out. You know goat blood, that's some heavy black magic, so I'm thinking witch, maybe? Either that, or a couple of sick kids out to reenact Carrie."

"Let's go to Montana, then," Dean said. South Dakota to Montana? They were practically next door, it would only take a few hours. If they left now, they could be there by noon.

"We can't just leave, Dean. What about Bobby?"

"We'll leave a note," Dean says as he shucks on his jacket.

"What's with you?"

"Nothing," Dean says. He rolls his shoulders. "Just fucking hate witches. Better take her out before she finishes whatever it is she needs all that goat blood for. You said yourself, that's some nasty shit."

"Yeah. But, still. It can wait till morning."

"If Dad were alive to hear that…"

"But he's not. Dad's dead, Dean. You don't…we," Sam corrected, "don't have to live in his shadow anymore."

Maybe Sam didn't, but Dean was past the point of escape from his father's ghost, from Cas's ghost; it was a constant lingering in the back of his skull. Usually it was asleep, but it didn't take much to jar it awake and for the words and reminder to jump through.

Save people.

Hunt monsters.

Take care of Sammy.

If he wasn't doing at least one of those things at any given moment, his Dad would've had his ass. Sam just didn't understand; he and Dad fought all the goddamn time, but his Dad had loved Sam, had been proud of Sam and bragged to anybody who would listen about his son, Sam. He never bragged about Dean to anyone.

And even years after his death, after taking out Yellow Eyes, after stopping the Apocalypse, Dean still couldn't convince himself that his Dad would be proud of him. So he had to keep trying.

"We don't know what's going on," Dean says, "so we might not be able to afford a couple of hours."

If he doesn't kill something….

"Bobby's a big boy," he continues, "he won't go crazy over a Dear Bobby letter. C'mon, Sam, we're wasting daylight here, let's go."


	11. Part Nine

TW: Discussions of rape.

It is a witch and the boiling in Dean's blood is placated when they tie her up the chair and tears run down her face. Dean might've felt sorry for her, but he didn't have it in him. Witches were people, but they were horrible people who stuck their fingers in dark, dirty stuff that needed to remain alone. She brought this upon herself.

"What's all the goat blood for, Maleficent?" he says, sticking the tip of his demon blade underneath her chin. To her credit, she looks him right in the eye when she tells him to go fuck himself.

"Rude," Dean says in a snort. "I'm gonna ask again real nice now, but if you don't answer me this time, I'm gonna get angry. And trust me lady, you won't like me angry."

"I don't like you very much right now," she says.

"Well then you really won't like me."

"Stop," Sam says. He forces Dean back and Sam steps up, kneeling down to be eye level with the witch.

"What are you planning?"

"Nothing," she spits. "I was running low on my reserves. I needed to stock up. I got a little carried away, but I'm not planning anything and I haven't hurt nobody!"

"Tell that to the farmer; you killed half his herd, that's half his livelihood gone."

"He should've invested in a better lock on his gate if he was so concerned."

Dean cuts her on her forearm. Not deep enough to kill, but it will hurt and she cries in pain and blood seeps out the wound.

"Dean," Sam says, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean?" the witch repeats. "As in, Dean Winchester? The Righteous Man?" Her eyes flare up in glee and it makes Dean's stomach do somersaults. "Is it true, Winchester? Did you really fall in love with the angel? Was he as good a fuck as the demons say?"

Dean's pulling the knife out of her heart before he even realizes he'd plunged it in. He stares down at the red tinted blade—suddenly the knife feels so much heavier in his hands and Sam's looking at him with those eyes again and Dean feels like he's going to puke. He needs a drink; he needs a smoke and he needs his pills and he needs to get away from those eyes. They're stabbing him, digging into his most sensitive flesh. It makes him hurt in a way he's never hurt before; not even when he was in Hell and Alastair asked him every day for thirty years.

It's not fair that Cas can still make him hurt when he's been dead for two years.

They go back to Bobby's and Dean splits the soonest he can. He finds himself back at a familiar crossroads and this time it only takes him ten minutes to set up the devil's trap and summoning box.

"I told you, Winchester, I can't bring Castiel back! There is nothing to bring back!" Crowley shouts.

"I need an archangel blade."

Crowley looks like he's been slapped. "Are you bloody nuts? How the bloody hell am I supposed to get you an archangel blade?"

"I have archangel blood. I just need you to make the rest. Please, Crowley." He was actually begging; to Crowley.

"You do know what one needs to make an angel blade, right? This little pesky, minute detail called being an angel! I seem to be lacking that one particular requirement, Squirrel, so, once again, I can't help you. Now let me go—I'm this close to luring Drew Barrymore into a deal where she never has to work with Adam Sandler again. Poor bird's desperate enough to sell her soul to get out of that contract."

Dean can't speak. In reality, he had expected this, but it doesn't make the pain go away.

"Then I want at the demons."

Crowley stares at him, sucks on his lower lip for fifteen seconds—Dean knows because he counts—and he then he pops his lips and looks to the dirt. "All right, Squirrel, listen up because you only get a deal like this once in a lifetime. My lifetime, I mean. I'll let you at the demons, free of charge, for twenty four hours. But I want them back. I don't care what condition, but if you kill them, I will be taking your soul."

"What makes you think I still have a soul left to sell?"

"I'm the King of Hell, darling. I've seen it all; you best get off your high horse while you still can, because I'm going to break it to you. There are souls sutured to the racks, more mangled than you can comprehend—and really, you of all people should be able to comprehend, shouldn't you?—You're not the one percent, Dean. Your hurt isn't any more valuable than any other pathetic snail. It's average. You think you're the only person to have had your precious little heart ripped out your chest?"

Dean takes a step forward. "The demons, Crowley."

"Right." Crowley snaps his fingers. "You'll find them in a little barn that's quite familiar to you, I'm sure; I was even nice enough wrap them all up in pretty bowed devil's traps for you. Don't break them, darling. Like I said, I want them back."

Dean breaks the devil's trap and was heading back towards the car before Crowley disappeared.

8888

There's a weight added to the bed, soft and subtle, that Dean barely notices it except for the heaviness that latches onto the atmosphere. It's sitting on his chest, compressing his lungs and Dean has no choice but to wake up and examine and by the time he's sitting up, his Glock in his hand, safety half off.

As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he sees Cas's silhouette sitting on the far corner of the bed, facing away from him, bent over his knees. Dean flicks the safety off and stashes his gun back underneath his pillow.

"Cas?" He says, reaching a tender hand out.

"Go back to sleep, Dean," Cas says and there's…something in his voice, something dark, malicious and foreign; it's wrong, whatever it is and Dean turns on the night side lamp.

"You okay, buddy?" Dean asks, wincing as the light penetrates his eyes. Cas still won't face him.

"Where is Sam?"

"We had to split up; they were out of double rooms."

"Oh."

Now that Dean can see more clearly, having adjusted, he can see a tremble in Cas's form, shivers that run up and down his spin and a hasty sound that escapes past his lips, breathy and broken.

"Are you…" Dean frowns, the sound is so unfamiliar from Cas, "are you crying?"

"No," Cas spits out, too quickly and it hits Dean in the face. Holy shit, he thinks, Cas is _crying._

He's out of bed and in front of Cas in an instant, but Cas won't look him in the eye and Dean feels like a knife has been plunged into his heart because of it. Cas always looks at him, straight into soul, with his icy daggers of eyes that could dissect Dean from soul to skin.

"Are you hurt?" Dean's hands are on Cas then, ignoring the startled flinching, and he pulls off Cas's coat to examine him for wounds. If Raphael hurt Cas, Dean was going—he didn't care about anything except seeing that Cas was okay; there was no blood or bruising, but Dean still couldn't shake the fact that something was terribly wrong because Cas still wouldn't look at him, and as Dean got closer, something bitter made his nostrils twitch, a pungent, sour stank that now was blindingly obvious. Dean tasted it with every inhale—it was a familiar smell, but unfamiliar, because this was Cas and—

"Dude," Dean said, tossing aside the coat to the floor far away, "you smell like—" sex was left on his lips as a whisper.

And then it all fell into place. And a bomb went off inside Dean, and he thought for a moment his blood vessels might explode and he fell into the pit the explosion left. Anger was safety, anger was a tool and was a familiar comfort. He grabbed Cas firmly by the shoulders, imagined himself searing a brand into Cas's shoulder, a hazard warning to anything that even dared to look at this out of reach thing that would read _Property of Dean Winchester DO NOT TOUCH _and he lowered his voice, tried to be gentle, but it was hard because the anger was threatening to drown him, "Cas, look at me," he says in a voice that leaves no room for argument. Free will or not, Cas still has trouble disobeying Dean's orders.

And there was all the confirmation Dean needed buried in those eyes, red rimmed and glossy. Dean turns around and kicked the wall, attacks the desk and throws off the lamp, letting it shatter on the floor in dozens of pieces.

And then Castiel is sobbing behind him, broken, haggard breaths that sounds like there's ice in his chest and Dean's heart freezes. He's going to Hell, he knows it. It doesn't matter what Joshua told him, or what Cas will tell him; none of his previous sins matter, not the drinking, or swearing, or womanizing, or stealing, because none of them can ever compare to making _an angel cry._

If God wasn't such a deadbeat, Dean was sure He would strike him down.

Dean puts his hands back on Cas's shoulders and pulls him into the fiercest hug he's ever given. Cas falls into it and buries his face into the safety of Dean's shoulder, wracked by sobs and spasms. They stay like that for a long time, until Cas quiets down and his sobs die down into pained hiccups.

"Raphael?" Dean ventures cautiously.

Cas shakes his head violently against Dean's shoulder. "Demons," he spits out like a vile curse.

Demons, Dean thinks. Demon_s. _Plural. And it's so much worse than what Dean had allowed himself to imagine. He tries to imagine Cas's fear and pain, what it must have felt like to be touched and violated by damnation when he carried the breath of God in his lungs.

"And Balthazar?" because damnit, Cas said he wouldn't go without backup.

"Dead."

Dean sighs and pulls Cas closer to him, trying to fool himself into thinking that maybe he can swallow this precious, alien thing into his chest to protect it.

"They made him watch," Cas says slowly, like he's tripping over his words, "and then they killed him."

What would Dean have done if he were Balthazar and Cas was Sam? If he were forced to witness his brother being torn and violated and there wasn't a damn fucking thing he could do about it? Death, maybe, was a mercy to Balthazar; Dean knows he wouldn't want to live with himself if he lived in those shoes.

Suddenly Cas is pulling away from him, pushing against his chest, struggling to get free. "I shouldn't be here," he says and looks towards the sky, forlorn and teary.

"Wait," Dean yells and grabs a tight hold of Cas's wrist, pulling it to his chest. "Stay here. Please, Cas."

"I shouldn't be here," Cas says and shakes his head. "They need me."

"I need you too," Dean says. He regrets it instantly—not because of the vulnerability he's placed upon himself by admitting it, but because he's asking Cas to choose between him and his family. _Again._

Dean scoots forward. "Look at me, buddy?"

Cas complies, but his gaze is weak. What once made Deans shiver under now is mute and lukewarm, non-penetrating. Cas was looking only at him and not into him like he used to.

"They can take care themselves for one night," Dean tries to reason. "Just…lay with me. C'mon, buddy." Dean coaxes Cas up the bed and onto his side—his back facing Dean. Dean rubs circles in between Cas's shoulder blades, counts the breaths that crawl in and out of his lungs.

"He asked me what Father wanted him to do with his free will," Cas says after several moments of silence. Dean waits with bated breaths, presses his palm deeper into his skin. "I said, 'Free will is a piece of rope. Go hang yourself with it'."

Dean can't help but smile, bitter and broken, but he holds back a chuckle. His angel is a freaking badass.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"For what?"

Cas is silent for a while. "I'm sorry."

Dean blinks and runs his hand through Cas's hair. He resists the urge to kiss the top of Cas's head—it's not right, not appropriate; Cas was scared, crying and depressed and such an act would only worsen all of those conditions. Dean resisted, telling himself one day. Maybe one day, when Cas won his war, they could be like this. It was so easy to picture Cas with him and Sam, sitting in the back of the Impala, coming on hunts with them. With all his freaky ten thousand years of knowledge about history and lore and religion, he was a walking search engine. And he was terrifying with a blade and a pair of fists.

If Dean even allowed himself to think about it, he could fool himself into believing that it was supposed to be this way, Cas with them. He could believe that God, wherever the hell He was, wanted them to have Cas. Cas had always been a Winchester at heart.

He certainly had the self-loathing to be one.

There's a lot he could say to Cas in this moment; most of them angry, profane responses directed completely towards Raphael and not Cas in the slightest, but he held back because….

Because he doesn't want to admit to himself that he failed yet another friend.

And because he didn't want to force Cas to talking about something he obviously wasn't comfortable with. He was still suffering from the immediacy, and he was hurt and tired and Dean wasn't going to hurt him anymore than he already was.

He wishes he could kiss Cas and take away the pain, but that would have to wait for later; a slow, painful journey.

Instead he continues to rub at Cas's back with just one hand, careful to stay close to the shoulders and says, "Go to sleep, Cas."

"I do not require sleep."

"Yeah," Dean says with a sigh. "But it'll make you feel better. Just to get a couple hours."

"I fail to see how several hours of total unconsciousness can make one feel better. Sleep requires relaxation, but how can one relax when they know that in their sleep they are unprotected, vulnerable? How do you know that your eyes will open in the morning after you've closed them for the night? Dean, did you know that nearly ten percent of your American population dies in their sleep? How can you possibly bear it?"

"Because," Dean fumbles for the right words, but damnit, this is Sam's area of expertise; this whole, feeling and comfort thing. And even worse, Cas is using science and logic—how is Dean supposed to argue with that, much less make Cas see any differently?

"Because," Dean says, stronger, "you just gotta have faith that you'll wake up. You gotta have faith that everything will be okay while you sleep, and you gotta have faith that you'll wake up in the morning. Where's your faith, bud?"

"I do not know."

"Nothing's gonna happen, I promise. You're safe with me, remember? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"I trust you, Dean."

"Then go the fuck to sleep."

Cas stops talking and Dean keeps rubbing circles in his back as his breathing evens and the tension in his body slightly lessens.

Dean falls asleep eventually too and when he wakes up, he's surprised to see that Cas is still there. Never in all the years they've known each other has Cas still been there when he's woken up.

Cas is sitting up on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead at the wall. Dean rubs the sleep out of his eyes and carefully reaches forward. He ignores the surprised flinch Cas gives at Dean's touch because Cas doesn't acknowledge it, either. In fact, he seems to be trying a valiant effort to pretend it hadn't happened, immediately returning to his tense, straight, warrior of God posture.

"Hey," Dean says, "how long have you been up?"

"Not long," Cas says. After a moment he adds, "I shouldn't be here."

"I say that's crap."

Cas turns to look at Dean—pained and stressed and he looks like he's been crying again, but his mouth is straight, "They need me. They are counting on me to lead them."

"Well, maybe they should start to figure it out for themselves. Free will is great and all, but they're only following you. They're not really making their own choices."

"Which is why I have to win this war. They are confused. They don't know whether to follow me or Raphael. And…"

"And?"

"Raphael no longer wishes to re-start the Apocalypse."

"Okay," Dean swallows. "Then what does he want with this war?"

"He wants to be God." Cas says it with such a broken voice, like he's punched in the guts and for a brief moment, Dean worries he'll start crying again. Cas doesn't, but he still won't met Dean's eyes.

Dean knows his father messed up a lot with him and Sam. He was a shitty dad, but he was a good man and that's what mattered. God, Dean figures, is a lot like John Winchester. Maybe not a good dad per se, but He brought Cas back twice—that counts for something in Dean's book, even if the guy is a total deadbeat.

And Cas—Cas adores his Father, has placed every ounce of faith in his blood in God and now someone wants to replace Him. Dean can't imagine anyone other than John Winchester as his dad, and frankly he doesn't want to imagine it. He wouldn't have it any other way and Cas must think the same thing about his dad, surely?

Cas stands up suddenly, looking to the ceiling. "I shouldn't be here," he says again and looks Dean in the eyes this time. "I have to go."

Dean reaches out to grab at Cas's coattails or arms or something, screams, "Wait!" but Cas is gone in a flutter of wings and Dean's left alone in the motel room

_AN: If anyone's interested, I'm looking for a beta. For the remainder of this story and for a few other SPN stuff I have planned. Shoot me a PM if you're interested and much love. _


	12. Part Ten

_AN: _True story. When I was planning this out way back in December, I thought it would only be 20,000 words. Then Dean had to spend the first 20,000 words crying and being drunk and now this story is looking to be nearly three times as long as intended! Thanks, Dean! BTW, shout out to 03Ben05 for being a beta reader.

* * *

It's two demons, one man and one woman and they're already tied to chairs sat in devil's traps for him, just like Crowley said. Dean will have to thank Crowley for that, maybe. He doesn't say anything when he walks in with his duffel. He lays the bag down in the floor and opens it wide for them to see all the contents—all the knives and iron, bottles of holy oil and his King James.

They don't react, at least not externally; Dean will have to give them that. Still, he pulls the demon blade from the duffel and swings it around in his hand—just like how Cas taught him to do with the angel blade. It's clumsy—the demon blade is shorter and heavier than the angel blade—but Dean knows it still comes off as intimidating and he's rewarded when the man's eyes waver and his voice cracks.

"What you gonna do with that?"

"Shut up!" the woman hisses, leering towards him.

"Eager to start, I see," Dean says and he smirks as he walks towards the man. He holds the tip of the blade underneath his chin and forces the demon trash to look at him. Brown eyes flick to black and Dean can feel the demon start to tremble.

"You gonna kill me, Winchester?"

Dean rips the blade forward, cutting the demon underneath his chin. He cries in pain and blood drips from his wound onto his lap slowly like a leaky faucet.

"Should I?"

"You're not going to do anything," the woman says. "I know all about your little deal with Crowley. You can't kill us."

"Maybe not," Dean says, turning his attention to her, "but when we're all done here, sweetheart, you'll wish you were dead."

"You think you're going to torture us? I have to listen to Crowley's irritating voice for all eternity. Trust me, hon, this is a vacation."

"Well then I hope you enjoy yourself, sweetheart."

She's harder to break than the man. The man's crying within three hours, blood dripping from his hair, begging for death. Dean doesn't think he's ever going to get the woman to break as the hours tick by. Five, eight, ten, twelve. He gets angrier at each hour that goes by. If he doesn't get this demon to crack, then it's all wasted and he'll never get another chance at this again.

But as the fifteenth hour rolls by and the man is just a sobbing, delirious mess, the woman is in just as bad shape, missing teeth, bathed in blood and cuts, fingernails missing and she's still taunting him and then—

"I don't get it," she says and for the first time Dean sees the faintest hint of tears in her eyes. "You know, he predicted this. And, and, he never said anything about God or the angels."

Dean stiffens and fights the urge to just plunge the knife hilt deep into heart. He promised Crowley he wouldn't, but hearing her talk about Cas and what she did to him…

But then there's also another part of him that wants to hear what she has to say; the masochist in Dean needs to know what happened.

"He looked me in the eyes and he said, 'Dean Winchester will burn you for this.' Isn't that funny?" A choked sob slips out her throat. "He basically said, 'When my boyfriend finds out what you did'…No, it was only your name that ever came out past his lips. And, the other one with that dreadful accent, he looked at me before I plunged his own knife through his throat and he said, 'Dean Winchester will burn you for this'. How'd you do it, Dean? I've heard about you. I know what you did in Hell—you were one of us. The angel knew it too, he saw it firsthand. So, how'd you do it? How did you get an angel, literally infused with the grace of God, to fall in love with you?

"And, it's funny. His name was Castiel but you called him Cas, didn't you?"

She doesn't have a right to say his name, not one single right and Dean stabs her in her thigh. She throws her head back and groans, but continues. "So, I guess it makes sense that he wouldn't say anything about God, cause you were the one to take him away from God. You took him from God when you butchered his name and dropped the 'el'—of God. So, not only did you get an angel to fall in love with you, you got an angel to turn his back on God for you. He pulled you out from Hell and you dragged him down from Heaven."

She blinks slowly, eyes turning coal black and cocks her head like a bird. Like Cas. "How did you do that?"

Dean doesn't answer her. Instead, he cuts out her tongue.

The rest of his time goes by in a blur; Dean doesn't remember a second of it. One moment he's pulling out the demon's tongue and bringing his demon knife down on it and the next he's all alone in the barn, the chairs empty, the chains and shackles hanging lazily on the seats. The devil traps are broken and Dean is vaguely aware of the absence of sulfuric stench, instead focused on the heavy and bitter metallic stank of blood.

It's everywhere. All on the floor, all the evidence that demons are not human, no matter if they used to be or not. There is no possible way for all that blood to have belonged to two human beings, alive or dead. It's a bright red, stands out against the dark wood of the barn like a flash in the night.

His boot prints are in it. And it's all over him, in his hair, underneath his fingernails, sewn into the fibers of his jacket.

He's suddenly overcome with such an exhaustion, he thinks were he to fall asleep, he would sleep forever.

But then he remembers he's been gone for twenty four hours—longer, actually—and he needs to find Sam because Sam is probably worried sick about him and Dean can't hurt Sam, not again, not anymore.

Get your brother and get out.

Take care of Sammy.

Always put Sammy first.

He repeats the cycle over and over until he makes it back to Bobby's house. He swallows when he sees through the living room window that there are lights on. He had hoped, uselessly, that Sam and Bobby would be asleep and he could sneak into the house, into the shower, before they even realized he had come home. Wash Hell away from his skin and hair so Sam wouldn't have to see him like this. So Sam wouldn't look at him and know what Dean's become, how strongly Hell still pulses through his veins as natural as his own heartbeat.

The engine of the Impala is loud. Dean's always known this-it can be heard yards away and he knows that whoever is up heard Dean pull up. Dean groans and rubs his face hard with his hands, cringing when he accidentally smears blood into his mouth. He glances up in the rearview briefly, something he had managed to avoid for the entire drive over and his shoulder sag.

It's everywhere. As though he'd been shot with a firehose of it, soaked to the bone and soul.

And when Sam comes out of the front door, Dean feels goosebumps rise up on his skin. He gets out of the car, stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets and waits.

Sam covers his mouth with his hands at first. He takes a brief step back and Dean feels like he's been kicked in the nuts. Then, Sam's hand slowly lowers and he rushes towards Dean. Before Dean realizes it, Sam has him pulled towards his chest.

"Oh, Dean…" Sam says as his hands trail down Dean's arms, as they card through his hair and come back coated in thick, red shine.

"It's not mine," Dean says.

Sam looks at him with his giant, sad puppy dog eyes. "I know," his nose cringes and he looks like he's going to be sick. "I can smell it."

Dean feels his eyes burn, but he pushes the tears down. Sam's so strong. It's that demon at the warehouse again, only this time Dean is literally soaked in it, head to toe, skin to soul. It's in his clothes. His socks. His hair. His teeth.

And Sam still holds him, even though Dean can see the war in his eyes. Sam's fighting so hard—he has fought so hard, through the detoxes and now Dean's brought back the substance that once tore them apart from one another.

Sam rubs his hand on his jeans, but he can't get it all off and Dean thinks he sees sweat forming at Sam's brow and it shouldn't be. It's nighttime and it's cold, Dean's shivering, but Sam's sweating and he's so strong…

"Did you make it hurt?"

Dean's head snaps up. "What?"

"Did you make it hurt?"

Sam's not bullshitting him, Dean realizes. "Yeah," he croaks. His body calls for a cigarette or another couple of pills or both.

Sam nods. "Good."

"You're not mad?"

"I've never been _mad _at you, Dean. I've been…" Sam sighs. "Look. Jump in the shower. I'll make some food. And then we need to talk, okay?"

"Okay," Dean concedes. He has no right to argue with Sam. Not when Sam's being so strong for him.

He stares at his feet as he showers, mesmerized by the pink water that drips down his skin and swirls down the drain in a dance. Drops of coagulated blood drip from his hair and stick to the rim and he rinses his mouth out and spits several times, continues on even after the water that pours past his lips is clear.

It'll take days to get it out from under his fingernails, if ever. Dean scrubs at them with soap and one of those little brushes he remembers his mom having on the side of her bathtub (probably something Sam picked up at the drug store, the girl). He grimaces at the smell of the soap, something fruity, like mangoes or peaches—he's never had either so he's not sure—and he gives up after only a few minutes.

He can't stand the smell of the shampoo either. Normally he wouldn't have even bothered with it. Normally, he only used the anti-dandruff kind that smelled like hospitals because aside from bruises and a short temper, the only thing he ever got from his dad was a dry, itchy scalp.

But the warm water, with the gentle smell of flowers, with his own fingers massaging his sensitive scalp…

It's calming.

Relaxing.

And when he lets his mind wander back to just hours ago, in the barn, remembers how good it felt to tear into those demons, to watch them bleed and hear them scream, he finds himself more relaxed than he's been in a long, long time.

You can take the Righteous man out of Hell, he thinks, but you can't ever take Hell out of the Righteous Man.

Sam can't cook for shit, but Dean won't tell him that. His brother's trying and that's more than Dean's been doing these last few days. So he grins and bears it as he picks at the food on his plate, separating away the burned bits and taking tentative bites.

Sam watches him for just a few minutes. He licks his lips cautiously. "I've been thinking," Sam says.

"First time for everything," Dean says between a mouthful of food.

"I've been thinking about what you said Dean."

Dean puts his fork down and looks up at Sam. "I say a lot of things, Sam."

"You said you were the only one trying to avenge Cas. And you're right. One hundred percent right. And, I know I said somethings that were…way out of line so…"

"Stop," Dean says. "You don't have to apologize."

"Except I do Dean. I've been doing a lot of thinking. About a lot of things, actually. Dad, Pam and Ellen and Jo and Ash. I've been thinking about Cas. But I've been thinking a lot about Jess. The thing is Dean, I understand exactly what you're going through. I just…kind of forgot that I understood, you know?"

"I guess?"

"Here, listen," Sam says and he digs his cell phone out of his pocket, fiddling with the buttons for a moment before putting it on speaker phone.

_One saved message _the automated voice says _from November 1 2005._

Dean swallows. That was the day before Dean drove Sam back to Stanford.

_Sam! _Jess's voice comes from the speaker. _Sam you asshole! How could you leave me to fight a hangover all by myself? I am never drinking ever again….Ughh….Is everything okay? You just kinda ran out last night, didn't really explain. Your brother's fine, right? You got him pretty good last night and…Anyway, Sam, I'm pretty sure I'm dying and Sean's just LAUGHING at me and I miss your pretty face so come home soon, okay? Love you._

"You've kept that all these years?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. Uh, I didn't even get to hear it until after the fire and I've never been able to make myself delete it. Sometimes when it gets really bad, I'll just listen to it over and over. Just to hear her voice…And I've been thinking that…maybe this voicemail is my coat. And I've been thinking, why should I make you get rid of something I won't get rid of myself? I know you didn't know Jess but…"

"But you were gonna marry her." It's not a question.

"That was the plan."

"So she's family."

"I'd like to think so. I really wish that Dad could've met her, or Bobby, but it's enough to me that you got to meet her."

"You want my blessing?"

"Would you have given it to me?"

"Of course. She made you happy."

"She did." A gentle smile comes across Sam's lips, soft and shy, but dreamy. "Listen,

Dean…what you did…I get it. I'm glad you did it."

"Why?"

"Because…because Jess and I had been dating for two years at that point and she told me that when she was little, only like five or six, that her uncle," Sam's throat swells and Dean can see a shine in his eyes that he tries to hide behind his hair. "Her uncle sexually assaulted her. And, I just saw red. And for the first time since I left for school, I wanted to pick up a gun and go and kill something. I wanted to kill her uncle. It didn't matter that he was human, he was still a monster, and if there's something Dad taught us right, it was how to kill monsters.

"But, her uncle had been dead for ten years at that point. Died of a heart attack. There was nothing I could do to make it better. And sometimes I still remember the night she told me. God, she was so fucking brave and I told her that and I did everything you're supposed to do, but it still wasn't enough for me. I still felt like that I should have been able to do something for her, something beyond gentle words and kisses and just holding her while she cried."

Dean takes a swig of his coffee even though it's gone cold. Sam's words are too close to home, but he has to listen.

"So, I'm glad you did what you did Dean. I wish I could do for Jess what you did for Cas. You did the right thing. And I'm going to help you continue to do the right thing."

"Sam," Dean's throat feels like it's closing.

"I'm sorry it's taken me this long."

Dean bites back happy tears. He doesn't remember standing up, but he and Sam are hugging and for the first time in years it feels like he's got his brother back.

"It was a trap," Dean mumbles into Sam's shoulder. "The ceasefire, the audience, it was all a trap so that he could get to Cas."

"We'll make him suffer, Dean. I promise."

"I should have been able to protect him."

"It wasn't your fault. None of it has been your fault."

"I need to make an archangel blade."

They pull away from each other. "Yeah," Sam says. "I figured. And I've been thinking about that too. Um. I think I know how we can make one."

"How?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"I was thinking…"

"Just spit it out, Sam!"

"I was thinking we could melt down Cas's blade and…re-forge it with the blood."

Dean swallows and thinks of the blade in the glove compartment, lying next to a handkerchief of archangel blood. The blade Cas had made himself. That Cas had put a piece of himself into.

And Sam wanted to…not destroy it.

"Shit," Sam says and he runs his hands through his hair. "I knew…I shouldn't have said anything, Dean."

"No," Dean says, licking his lips. He thinks.

It wouldn't be destroying it. They'd be remaking it. Into something that could kill Raphael. And that piece of Cas would still be in there. That couldn't be destroyed, right?

And...if that was the only way to kill Raphael...then the ends justified the means, right?

"Okay," Dean says. "Let's do it."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Dean sighs and sticks his hands into his pocket. "It…it actually sounds like a real fucking good plan, Sam. I…I never would have thought of it." He wasn't objective, like Sam. His emotions got the better of him, drove him off the edge of sanity into the pit of despair and anger where his only lifesavers were his pills and Jack Daniels. Sam, though. Sam saw everything outside looking in. He could detach himself from the situation, from his position, his emotions and his friends and see things the way a stranger would.

"You should go to bed, Dean."

"I'm not tired."

"I don't care. Catch a few winks, just a few, and then we'll melt down the blade tomorrow, okay?"

There it is again. Sam said _we'll. _As, the two of them, together. As a team, as brothers. Uniting for a common cause. Dean is elated, far beyond anything he could ever express, but there still stems underneath a worry he can't placate. He has to keep his hopes tethered down because if he gets them too high, too fast he's going to crash and bring everything around him back down.

It's like he's dreaming, though—like that awful dream Raphael put him through—and there's a moment where Dean's torn between wanting to stay in this moment forever or moving forward and breaking the illusion. It's similar to that time when he got captured by that djinn. He knew that the life he was living then was only a dream. But it had been so tempting to just stay there and live the kind of life he always wanted, even if it wasn't real. It had felt real. He'd been happy. What was the problem in living a lie if the lie made him happy?

But.

Dean swallows. It's the same argument Cas had spieled to him when they first met, about why everyone dying and going to Heaven wasn't such a bad thing, back when he was still a Dick. They'll be happy, Cas had said. They won't know the difference.

Dean did know the difference, though. He knew about the monsters that lurked around the corners of every street and there wasn't a switch that could just turn it off. He had known that while he lived that wonderful dream, the djinn was sucking blood from his neck with a bendy straw. And he knew that somewhere, the real Sam was probably going crazy looking for him. That's why he couldn't ever have stayed. With knowledge came pain, but it was his right as a human to feel that pain. And it was his duty as a human to live the life he had been given. Destiny may have played a part in putting Dean in his position, but it been Dean's decision to stay when there had been so many times he could have run away.

So if this was a dream, then he had to wake up. Dawdling wouldn't do him any good. And it sure as hell wasn't going to make Cas any less dead.

"And Dean?" Sam says. "You and Cas...you would've had my blessing too. Just so you know."


	13. Part Eleven

Dean doesn't see him for two months. Whenever Sam asks, he responds in harsh, clipped tones and snaps at Sam to just drop the topic.

"He's David going against Goliath," Dean snapped at him once. "And he doesn't even got God on his side, or even a fucking slingshot. Dude's got better things to worry about right now—like staying alive."

"Yeah," Sam had said, eyeing Dean with that pitied look. "But, I mean, is it too much to ask to drop in for a literal second just so we know that he's still alive?"

"He's alive," Dean's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, his foot presses harder on the gas. "I know he is."

"Okay," Sam said. "Cas is okay. But, are you okay?"

"The fuck kind of question is that?"

"Never mind."

They're currently in a small town in Nevada. It's just past ten pm when they pull into their motel parking lot and Dean's shivering, his breath visible in front of his face while he impatiently waits for Sam to check them in.

He looks to the sky and stars. The city is far away, so the sky is blanketed with them, undisturbed. They are thousands, Dean thinks. Maybe even millions. And they've been there for who knows how long. Long before Dean, that's for sure. And most of them will still be there long after Dean.

"Cas?" Dean says aloud. He can understand if Cas is simply too busy come. But if Cas is hurt, or worse…

And if it's just a pride thing keeping Cas away, then Dean vows to punch Cas in the face next time they see each other. Because, Dean realizes, that's probably it. Cas is so wrapped around his angelic identity, warrior of God, soldier of Heaven—something inhuman and an enigma Dean can never even begin to possibly understand. And, okay, so maybe Dean is a bit proud himself, but Cas and Sam had both seen him cry a bunch of times and he didn't run and hide from them. And damn it, Cas shouldn't have to wall himself up from Dean.

"Can you spare a minute?" He asks the sky. "I mean, I get if you can't right now…but whenever you can…you know you're welcome with me and Sam anytime, right? I mean it, dude. You're family. You know that right?"

Why does he suck at this so much? He knows on an intellectual level that it's not as hard as he's making it. It's four words, all monosyllabic: _I want you here. _

But each time he opens his mouth, the words freeze up inside his throat and he can't physically speak. What is afraid of, he wonders. Rejection? Maybe, but...no, not really. Dean knows he's not freaking Dr. Phil or anything, but...Cas wouldn't have come to Dean that night if he wanted nothing to do with Dean.

And maybe Cas doesn't feel the same way about Dean that Dean does Cas...but even Dean can't convince himself of that. Because Cas has this way of looking at him like he's the entire Universe, like nothing else exists.

Why, then, do they keep dancing around each other the way they do? There's no rejection to fear-at least not from each other. Dean briefly wonders what Sam would think if he and Cas did get together. He likes to think that Sam would be okay with it. Sam would want him to be happy, right? Sam and Cas don't have the kind of relationship that Dean has with either of them, but they're friends at least.

But then there's the fact that Dean is cursed. And that everyone he loves is doomed to die. And Cas has died before because of, and for, Dean. Dean wants to be selfish, he wants to open his heart wide, he wants Cas to say fuck you to Heaven and stay with Dean on Earth in shitty motel rooms and eat bad diner food. He wants to share a bed with Cas again.

"Heads up," Sam's voice breaks Dean's inner monologue. Out of instinct, Dean's hand reaches out and he catches the room key before it hits the ground. "Come on," Sam says. "I'm beat."

After Sam's fallen asleep, Dean snags his laptop out of his duffel and goes into the bathroom, back pressed up against the tub and feet stretched out as far as they can. His bare feet are pressed up against the door and the backlight hurts his eyes as he keeps scrolling through all the different websites and message boards.

He sees one site that offers one on one instant messaging with a supposed expert, so Dean quickly sets up an account with a burner email address.

**dr. : **Hello! I am Dr. Backstrom. How can I help you this evening?

**CVimpala_67_: **Are you really an expert?

**dr. : **Well, that's what is says on my license! What's the matter CV?

**CVimpala_67_: **My friend was raped and I dont know how to help him.

The bluntness of the statement makes Dean's stomach churn.

**dr. : **I'm really very sorry to hear that, CV. But it's very good that you want to help your friend. Wanting to help is a very good step to start helping.

**CVimpala_67_: **I know im supposed to be there for him and stuff but he's been staying away from him and he wont answer my calls and i worry about him all the time.

**dr. : **You sound like a very good friend, CV. It's important to give your friend his space. Rape is a terrible, horrible act meant to humiliate and deface the victim to their barest core. It is not uncommon for rape victims to withdraw from their friends and families, especially men, who oftentimes find themselves without the support system a woman might have.

**CVimpala_67_: **i feel like it may be my fault he's not talking to me. when he told me i was so angry. not at him i was angry at the guy that did it to him but i started breaking stuff and i screamed and i feel like now that may have been the wrong way to respond.

**dr. : **There is no right way to respond to hearing news like that. It's understandable that you would be angry. But for your friend, it's incredibly important that he knows he's loved and cared for. I cannot stress the importance that you be there to support your friend through this difficult time in his life.

**CVimpala_67_:** but how can i help him if he wont let me?

**dr. : **You have to just keep trying.

The bathroom door swings open and Dean, out of habit, slams the laptop lid down and draws his legs together. Sam stars at him bleary eyed, hair hanging in his face, scowling.

"Really, Dean?" He says, yawning. "You better not've been watching porn."

"Gee, Sam," Dean says, "I am offended by your lack of faith. I don't just watch porn, you know."

"Uh huh," Sam says. "Whatever, I don't want to know. Just clear the history when you're done. And get out, I gotta take a leak."

"There's a perfectly good sink out there in the kitchenette," Dean says. "Don't see why you had to bother me."

"God, you're disgusting."

Dean grumbles his breath and packs Sam's laptop under his arms. When he gets out into the motel room, he quickly clears all the history from that evening and dr. is still messaging him about where he went, is he okay, is his friend okay, and it's too much all at once and Dean closes the browser window and shuts off the laptop. The toilet flushes as Dean packs it back into Sam's duffel.

"You're such a loud pisser," Dean says, "I think you woke the neighbors up."

"Jerk," Sam spits as he climbs into his bed. Dean's lips curl to form his reply, but it dies before it can get to his tongue. He's too tired. He climbs under the covers and pulls them over his head and he starts praying again and he doesn't stop until he eventually falls asleep.

He wakes up to the noise of Sam's gigantic feet stomping around and the grate of his voice.

Voices?

Dean sits up, rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

"Hey sleepy head," Sam says, "look who came to visit."

"Hello, Dean."

Dean finds the sleep evaporated out of him. He's sitting up, wide eyed. Cas is leaning against the kitchenette counter, hands stuffed inside his coat pockets. He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Dean though is just elated that Cas is here and he's alive; he's so overcome with emotion that for a moment he can't even speak. His throat closes up and he just stares at Cas, caught some horrible place between wanting to laugh out of joy or cry out of pure happiness that Castiel is here and he is alive, or punching him in his face for being evasive for this long.

Sam gives him a pointed look and Dean clears his throat, hoping to cover up his awkward silence.

"Hey Cas," he says, forcing a smile, "glad you could stop by. We were starting to get worried about you."

"I apologize. It has not been possible to visit. Raphael's forces are...expansive."

"Oh," Dean says because what else is there to say?

So I guess we're not going to talk about this, Dean thinks and he bites his lip.

"So, Cas," Sam says, "you up for helping us out with our hunt?"

"Really, Sam?" Dean snaps. "Cut the guy some slack. Can't he get a bit of a break?"

"It's all right, Dean," Cas says and he takes the case file Sam hands him and he casually flips through it.

"It looks like a simple salt and burn," Sam informs, leaning over Cas to point to important information. Sam doesn't notice the way Cas flinches from the closeness; it's subtle and minute. But Dean notices. He swallows.

"We think the suspect is Regina Waters," Sam continues. "See, her kid died when he was really young. Hit by a drunk driver. Now, Regina, or whoever, is killing drunkards, alcoholics. It doesn't sound malicious, but the people she's killing...they aren't bad people. Not like the guy who killed her kid. The people Regina's killing are just...sad, hopeless drunks."

"I understand, Sam." He hands Sam back the file and then

And then he's gone. Disappeared with only the sound of shuffled feathers and Dean stares at the empty spot where Cas just was, mouth ajar, prepared to scream at Sam again—why would Sam just send Cas off like that, damn it!

Sam looks at him sympathetically. "He needs to feel helpful, Dean."

And then Cas is back, right in the same exact spot except this time his hands are behind his back. "It is highly unlikely that the spirit belongs to Regina Waters," he says confidently.

"How'd you know?" Sam asks.

"She was cremated."

Sam glances over to Dean and shrugs. "What do you think?"

"Unless she was one of those weirdoes who kept her baby teeth in a jar…"

"How did Regina Waters die?" Cas asks.

"By irony," Sam says with a straight face. Cas squints his eyes and tilts his head.

"She drank herself to death," Dean snaps. He knows Sam is only teasing, but Dean's gotten into the habit of leveling down the sarcasm when Cas around, being more blunt and to the point.

"Hm," Cas says. "Sam, may I see the file again?"

Cas flips through the pages again, this time studiously, not leaving a single word overlooked. "She was a concert pianist."

Dean snorts and hides a chuckle behind a hand. Sam bitch faces him.

"Pianist, Dean. Get your head out of the gutter."

"Human spirits are...unique," Cas says. "Sometimes a body is not necessary to anchor them to the living realm. Sometimes, a strong emotional bond is all that's needed."

"You saying Regina's piano is what's keeping her here?"

Cas looks up. "Music is incredibly therapeutic, Dean. I thought you knew that? You enjoy yours."

"Well, yeah. But y'know, that's all bass and drums and-"

"And dude's screaming so loud you can't understand what they're saying."

"And that," Dean says with an eyeroll. "Thanks for the input, Sam. That hardly compares to whatever classical mumbo jumbo this lady was into."

"Well, regardless," Cas says, "if this piano was important to Regina, then it may be what's preventing her spirit from moving on."

"Well then," Dean says slapping his knees, "let's go torch Beethoven."

Dean knows that Cas is grade A weird. But this has to top the list of Weird Shit Cas Does That He Thinks Is Perfectly Normal. Forget making hookers cry.

"Dude," Dean says, leaning over towards Sam. "Am I dreaming? Or high? Please scream at me and tell me I'm high."

"If you're high, then I'm high too."

"So Cas is really…"

"Playing piano with a ghost."

Because now that Dean thinks about, it's a perfectly normal Cas thing to do.

They had just been about to torch the piano, found in Regina's old storage shed when she showed up, pissed off and ready to attack. And then Cas started talking to her and now he's playing piano with her frigging ghost.

Cas is playing the right hand and Regina's playing the left and they work in such synchronicity, it's like they've been doing it all of eternity.

Dean gets over the shock quickly, though. In the pit of his stomach, he feels pity for Regina. She looks so happy sitting next to Cas playing her piano. Dean wonders when she last felt this happy.

The song climaxes and both Cas and Regina's fingers dance across the keyboard so fast for a brief moment Dean can't tell what hand belongs to who and when the song ends, Regina looks over to Cas and Dean hadn't known that ghosts could cry.

She leans forward and kisses Cas on the cheek. "Thank you," she says. Cas touches her forehead and says something in Enochian. Regina evaporates.

"Huh," Dean says. "That was...uh...different."

"Sometimes," Cas says, rubbing through a line of dust on the lid. "A person just needs to be reminded that...there is good in this world. And, there is reason to leave it behind."

"You didn't tell me you could piano, Cas."

"Father loves music," Cas says, straightening up, like he's got a rod in his spine. "And when we were not fighting wars or battling demons, my garrison was stationed before the Throne and we sang praises to Father and the Son."

And Dean wonders for a second if Cas and Jesus were tight. He wants to ask, but doesn't know how.

"So," Dean coughs into his hand-he doesn't need the reminder of what Cas was before he met Dean; what he was before Dean fucked up his life "what-what else can you play?"

Cas contemplates for a moment and then he starts to play. Dean recognizes the song in the first two notes and he can't help the smile that comes to his face.

"Now that's what I'm talking about!" Dean says and he sits next to Cas on the bench and he sings the vocals to _Carry On My Wayward Son _while Cas plays the music and Sam rolls his eyes and even if it's only on one piano, it sounds like the song Dean's grown up with in the background of his entire life. In a way, it's the theme song of his life. A boring soundtrack, but true.

Cas joins in singing after the instrumental solo. Compared to Dean, his voice is much lower, more subdued, but it carries a heavy atmosphere. He's reverent, wistful—he sounds the same as he does the few times Dean has heard him pray.

"I was soarin' every higher," and Cas holds this note for longer than Dean's used to, but he plays along because damn can Cas sing, "but I flew too high."

And when the chorus comes up again and Cas says "Don't you cry no more," Dean knows Cas is looking at him. Awkwardness as well as jealously worm their way into the pit of Dean's stomach, because the staring is intimidating and because Cas doesn't even have to look at the fucking keys to play and sing at the same time.

And Dean decides this is something he'd like to do again. They can get Cas a little keyboard, one of these cheap Yamaha keyboards he' seen at Wal-Mart for just over a hundred bucks. It'll stuff into the trunk of the Impala easily and when they're booked up in a motel room they can pull it out and listen to Cas play. Maybe Cas could teach him, even.

And that was Dean's problem to begin with. Planning a future he knew he could never have.


	14. Part Twelve

"You have to get yourself better first," Sam says, parking the Impala. Not in front of the art school, like Sam said they were going, but instead in front of Lizzy's office. Dean hadn't been there since he walked out that first appointment, even though she kept refilling his meds. "I'll melt the blade down, but you need to focus on you right now. Okay?"

Dean wants to argue. He and Sam had agreed, they were in this together. But he bites down on his lip. Sam's not entirely wrong, but Dean can't bring himself to focus on Dean. He's never been allowed to worry about himself. It was always Take Care of Sammy, Look After Sammy. And then it became Saving People, Hunting Things, it's the Family Business Dean. It was a learned habit, enforced by his dad. It was the devotion that led Dean to selling his soul to save Sam that prevented him from being able to focus on himself.

And…Sam had been right, a while ago. When he said that Dad was dead, that he wasn't there to order them around anymore. Wasn't there to dictate Dean's life. Maybe Dean could learn to focus on himself.

Baby steps.

"Okay," Dean says, licking his lips. He goes inside, hears Sam drive off the moment he steps past the threshold. Dr. Lizzy is there and she smiles at him when she sees him. They shake hands. Her handshake is firm and solid, screams confidence.

"It's good to see you again, Dean," she says. "How are you doing?"

"Not well, doc," Deans says, stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket. He fiddles with his medication bottle. He only has three pills left, and the idea of a cold turkey detox makes his muscles tense. Besides, he can't detox, not now, he tells himself. He needs the pills to focus, to keep out the knocking. Otherwise, he'll be like he was for those first few weeks. He barely remembers it now, but it comes to him in flashes at times. Sam crying, Bobby yelling, stashing a bloodied coat underneath his pillow and keeping a fist clenched around it in his sleep. More alcohol in his veins than blood, he couldn't function.

The pills help him function. And he needs to function.

"You ready to talk about it?" Lizzy asks.

"No," Dean says honestly. He shrugs, "But I think I need to."

"Come on," she says and she leads Dean back to her office.

"Your brother has been keeping me updated on your condition," she says as they sit down.

"Doesn't that break some kind of confidentiality agreement?"

"There's no confidentiality if you don't ever come in."

Fair enough, Dean thinks.

"So," she clicks her pen and opens her legal pad over her knees. "What do you want to talk about?"

Dean talks. He talks about his mother and her singing, how she spoke of angels watching over him, protecting him. He chokes up when he talks about how his mother died (house fire, is all he says; serial arsonist. It's not technically a lie.) He talks about how his dad went crazy with grief and dragged him and Sam across the country to track the killer. He talks about Sam and Dad always fighting, always the cause of tension and of Sam's scholarship to Stanford, then Dad's disappearance, then Dad's death. He leaves out a lot, too, though, keeps it vanilla. No mention of monsters or demons or biblical prophecies. He skips over the first time Sam died and how he sold his soul to bring him back. He tells Lizzy Sam was comatose after a mugging and how he prayed to anyone who would listen. He skips over his trip to Hell, too, because how would he explain that to a doctor without sounding crazy? Dean had lived it all and he still thought he was crazy.

He tells her that, uh, circumstances separated him and Sam for a few months and that those few months were unpleasant and felt more like decades than a season.

"And is that where Cas came in?" she asks.

Dean swallows. "Yeah." His lips and throat felt dry. "I guess you could say he pulled me from Hell."

Lizzy smiles at him and Dean's stomach curls.

"What was he like?"

Dean frowns for a moment. "Castiel was…" he starts slowly, tripping over the past tense briefly, "…a pig headed, proud, self-righteous, self-destructive son of a bitch." He looks Lizzy in the eye as she waits patiently. "But he was also the biggest dweeb I've ever met and he was a friggin genius and so sincere…you didn't want to like him on principle, but you couldn't help it. It was like, he had this orbit, a gravitational pull and you just got sucked in.

"And it took me a while to see it, but I realized we had a lot in common. Cas came from a…a pretty big family. They were strict, kind of kept the kids locked away, especially Cas. He was an angel."

"That's really sweet, Dean."

Dean sniffs and rubs his nose with his hand. "Before she died, Mom used to always tell me I had angels watching over me," he doesn't know why he's telling her this. He's barely told Sam this and that took years to admit. Lizzy is practically a stranger. "Bet she never guessed that I'd end up watching over one myself." Or that he'd do such a horrendous job of it. If she were alive, she'd be ashamed of what a horrible friend he was.

And if Dad were still alive, he'd be ashamed too; ashamed that his son fell for a non-human, supernatural creature.

"And Castiel's family. They didn't approve of you two being together?"

"Um," he and Cas had never been "together". They pussyfooted around it and now it was just a what could have been. "No," Dean says. "Cas got kicked out of his family when they found out…about us."

"And you feel responsibility for that?"

Dean shrugs. "It was my fault. I pressured him into turning his back on them. And they disowned him and humiliated him for it."

Lizzy shifts so that she's leaning closer to Dean. "How did Castiel die?"

"It wasn't in Iraq," Dean says, remembering what Sam had told her last time they spoke. "His brother killed him."

And I watched him die. I carried his body to the backseat of the car. I drove the forty miles to the secluded woods. Sam helped me build the pyre, but I'm the one who lit it.

"And the police?"

Dean chews on his lip. Right. Normal people went to the police when their friends got hacked to bits. "The trail's gone cold. No one knows where he is."

"And you want to seek justice yourself?"

Dean stiffens and Lizzy raises an eyebrow. "I still have my notes from last time. You said something about 'ramming his halo up straight up his ass'?"

"Somebody has to," he says quietly.

"And uh, care to explain what you meant by halo?"

Dean digs his nails into the meat of his thigh. "No. It's complicated."

"What is it you need Dean?"

"Pills." The answer stumbles out his mouth. "I can't concentrate without them."

She scribbles on her notepad. "Okay, I can do that. What else do you need?"

"My brother. He gives me a reason to get up every morning. If I didn't have him…well, I wouldn't be here."

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Cas. But he's been dead a long time already."

Lizzy smile sat him and rips off a prescription slip. "Oh, sweetie," she says, "just because he's dead doesn't mean he's gone."

888888

They got back to the motel after they finish with Regina. Cas hasn't flapped back off to Heaven yet to go on a suicide mission, so Dean considers it a good night so far. He sits on the bed and digs out one of his old Vonnegut novels. It's well worn, with a folded over and dog eared pages, but it's a favorite and he likes to re-read it every few months.

Sam sits Cas down at the mini table by the air conditioner and pulls out a deck of cards he found in the glove compartment of the car.

"You know how to play Blackjack?" he asks, shuffling the cards.

"I am…familiar with the rules," Cas says. "But I have never had the opportunity to play."

"Looks like today's your luck day then." Sam deals the cards. "It's usually more fun if you get more people to play, but you can just play against me for now."

Dean doesn't miss the shy smile that tugs at the corners of Cas's lips. "Card games are one of humanity's oldest inventions," he says, sneaking a look at his hand. "Uh, I believe the terminology is, 'hit me'".

Sam lays down another card. It's a six. "How old?"  
"Cards were invented in Imperial China, during the Tang dynasty."

"Tang? That was, uh, from 600 AD to 900 AD, right?"

"Approximately. I find them one of humanity's most interesting inventions. Fifty two painted pieces of cardboard create a near infinite combination of games."

"You want another hit?"

"No."

"Okay, reveal."

If Dean's paying more attention to their game than his book, he's not going to admit to it. Sam and Cas don't get to just kick back together and hang around. Dean's slightly jealous of just how much easier it seems for Cas to talk with Sam than Dean. Dean's deduces it to the simple fact that they're both massive nerds—seriously, who the hell knew that card games were invented in the Tang dynasty?

And it's weird just how easy they seemed to get over their clunky, bad first introductions when Sam was just the Boy with the Demon Blood and Castiel was just another Dick with Wings.

They're friends. Dean doesn't know why that's so important, but it is. And they can converse with each other easier than Dean does with either of them.

Because they're nerds and because Sam's a girl who talks about his feelings and there's still so much about humanity that Cas doesn't understand.

"Nineteen," Cas says.

"Twenty three," Sam says sourly. "Reading minds is cheating, you know."  
"I would never," Cas says in mock indignation, based on the inflection of his voice. Or maybe he is serious. Cas doesn't do sarcasm. Dean legitimately can't tell and he laughs, his book long forgotten. Sam does too.

"What is funny?" Cas asks. "What did I do?"

Dean laughs harder.

888888

When he exists the building, Sam is leaning against the Impala with his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

"Did you do it?" He asks. The plan itself had been pretty simple. Go to the art school, borrow a kiln and melt the blade down. From there it was just about re-building. Dean's a mechanic at heart. Building and rebuilding is his specialty.

He's also pretty good at destroying things, he thinks with a sour frown, but he doesn't express that to Sam.

He rebuilt the Impala from scratch after the semi accident all those years ago, made an EMF detector out of a useless Walkman and made a sawed off when he was twelve. Making a sword didn't seem all that hard in comparison. Besides, he knew how to do it too. If he wasn't sleeping or smoking, he was researching weaponry and blacksmirth…ery, whatever, he was a mechanic, not a grammarian.

"Yeah," Sam says, wearing his pity bitch face and he pulls out of his pocket a small tubberware container and hands it to Dean.

Dean takes it carefully, consciously, like a baby. He peers threw the plastic and sees the liquid silver with the tiniest bits of blue specks floating, like stars in the sky. He swallows a hard lump that grew in his throat. This was what was left of the angel blade Cas made himself. Light as air and only enough volume to fill half a container they put leftovers in.

"The professor gave me a weird look when I threw it in," Sam says. "I told him it was a prop for an anti war piece I'm doing. Needlessly to say, he didn't ask many questions after that."

"So what now?" Dean says. He feels the need to keep the remnants of the blade close to his heart. There are specks of Castiel's grace in there—pieces of Castiel, that Castiel cut out and put into his illegal weapon he made himself.

"Now we go back to Bobby's. I'm gonna go to bed, you're gonna make an archangel blade and then _we _are gonna gank Raphael."

"Sounds good," Deans says, mildly disinterested. It's not that what Sam is saying isn't good—it is. And that's the problem. It's too good to be true. It's too simple. In reality, there are too many things that can go wrong, horribly wrong. Dean could fuck the blade up, would have destroyed Castiel's blade for nothing. Raphael could kill both him and Sam before they even turned to face the fucker. Raphael could send Sam's soul back to the Pit to get ass reamed by Lucifer and Michael forever and Dean's stuck with an apathetic, sadistic robot of a brother.

Sam's plan is nice in theory. But Dean's been around the block more than once. He doesn't get happy endings. He tried once, after Dad died; back and forth across the country, hunting, helping people. But then Sam died and Dean sold his soul. He tried with Lisa, but he was only content with her and Ben, not happy.

And if, say if, he does manage to kill Raphael…then what? He still wouldn't get a happy ending because Castiel will still be dead.

And Dean can't imagine a happy ending for him that doesn't involve Cas.

But he can't let these fears and doubts stop him. He owes it to Cas to try. Dean sticks the tubberware into his pocket and zips his jacket all the way up. It's warm against his stomach—like butterflies, Dean thinks idly, before he claps his hands.

"Let's go," He tells Sam. "I'm driving." He steals the keys from Sam and pats the hood of the Impala. Out of the corner of his eye, he thinks he sees out of the corner of his eye Sam laughing and shaking his head at him, but Dean can't find it in himself to care.

"Hear that, Cas?" He whispers gently. "We're gonna win this thing. I'm gonna do you right."

And hearing the purr of the Impala's engine makes Dean feels nearly orgasmic.

"Dude," Sam says, now sporting his bitch bitch face, "seriously, don't jizz in the car."

"Excuse you," Dean snaps, "but Baby's been there with me from the beginning."

"Ew! Things I Do Not Need To Know About My Brother: When and where he lost his virginity is at the top of the list."

"Eh, don't worry Sammy, we'll get you laid one of these days. Just not in the back of Baby. You can only be christened once, y'know."

"La la la I'm not listening," Sam says, covering his ears.

Dean huffs as he switches the ignition into drive, keeping the warm metal close to his skin. As he drove, it drummed against his stomach like a heartbeat.


	15. Part Thirteen

Castiel is starring into the bathroom mirror when he gets back with food. Sam's out jogging before it gets too dark, so once again Dean is left alone with Cas. He's leaning over the sink, so close his nose almost touches the glass and he's wearing his Confused But Observant Castiel Face ™.

"Checking yourself out, Cas?" Dean says, throwing the Burger King bag onto the tiny table by the window.

"I think my vessel needs a shave," he says rubbing at his chin and neck. And dude's got a bit of a point, Dean thinks. Cas does not rock the neck beard.

"You can't just mojo it away?"

"No," he says. "My true form is too connected with the vessel to change its physical appearance."

Dean's about to mmhmm, what he usually does whenever Cas starts talking about the metaphysics of angels and heaven, but he catches himself and does a double take.

"So," he clears his throat. "Is Jimmy still knocking around in there?"

Cas shakes his head. "After my death at Stull Cemetery—"

Dean locks his jaw. Death wasn't quite the word Dean would use. Cas exploded and Dean still remembers what it was like for one moment to see Cas standing there, visibly tremoring as Lucifer addressed him and then the next for him to be gone with nothing left to say he'd been there at all. At least when he died at Chuck's house, there'd been a tooth left behind. The nothing was worse.

"When Father brought me back, He brought me back whole, uh, 'fully juiced' as you would say, and alone. Jimmy's soul was sent to Heaven."

"Huh," Dean says. "Well, thank God for small mercies, I guess."

"Indeed."

Dean walks into the small, cramped bathroom and stands next to Cas. He used to think of Cas—or was it Jimmy?- as kind of scrawny. He wasn't like Sam who visibly looked strong and he didn't have the angry scowl Dean had that warned people away. Instead, Cas had his own form of intimidation in the way he constantly stared. Dean felt like Cas was seeing into him everytime he stared, that he couldn't hide any secrets or tell any lies. Dean wonders if strangers feel the same way. Despite being the least intimidating on the outside, Cas was more standoffish.

"What do you really look like?" the words tumble out his mouth before he fully realizes he's said them. Cas glances at him for a brief second before returning his gaze to the mirror. Dean knew from experience he wouldn't ever be able to hear Cas's real voice or see what he really looked like, unless he wanted his brain to melt out his ears.

"Sorry," Dean says, because he barely understands human etiquette, how was he supposed to understand the angel ones? For all he knows, he just asked Cas to get naked in front of him.

"It is all right," Cas says. "It is okay to be curious. Though it is called my true form it is actually…rather shapeless. It's more of an energy than an entity."

"Oh. Like lightening?"

"That's fairly accurate."

Oh. So he was in love with a spark of lightening shoved down a dead guy's throat. And Dean thought his love life was fucked to hell before.

"But," Cas says, reaching out to touch his reflection, "since Jimmy died, this visage is as much me as my true form. And frankly, I'm glad this is how you and Sam have come to know me. In this form, I believe you and Sam treat me as an equal, or like a peer."

"Dude, you totally got swirlyed at the Angel Academy didn't you?"

"I still have no idea what a "swirly" is. But, my true form is rather unimpressive when compared to the other angels."

"I don't believe you. I mean, I know Zach was a mega dickwad but he always pimped you out to being Employee of the Month. _And _he went on all how the only reason I was able to corrupt was because you were _young, _like a baby."

Cas snorts and tucks a loose thread of hair behind his ear. "Yes, well, compared to Zachariah many things would be considered young."

Dean laughs and claps Cas firmly on the shoulder. "Dude," he says in between breaths when he can catch them, "I knew you had a sense of humor shoved somewhere up your ass. You just had to dig deep enough."

And Dean is totally going to kill Sam for teaching Cas how to roll his eyes. "I am not a baby," he says in full Angel of the Lord voice.

Dean goes behind Cas and puts both hands on Cas's shoulders. He's unsure at first. Is this too much? Too intimate, too soon?

But Cas doesn't react, so Dean takes it as permission and he lowers his head to fit it in the crook of Cas's neck. "'Course you are," he mumbles. "Baby in a trench coat."

"Dean," Cas says. It's warmth, and need, and love and rejection all at once. "Dean, I can't."

"Oh." Goddamn it, how could he have been so stupid? Propositioning his angelic best friend that got kidnapped and raped by demons. Way to go Winchester.

"And," Cas says, like he's read Dean's mind. Who knows, he probably did. "It's not…it's not because of that. I trust you Dean. I know you would never hurt me. It's just…"

"You have to leave," Dean mumbles into Cas's neck.

"You must understand. It's not a no. I want…" Cas sighs. "It's a not right now."

"But eventually?"

Cas turns to face Dean and they're so close, their noses practically touch. It would be so easy to just lean in the half inch and take what Castiel is giving.

But he can't. Because Cas is going to have to leave again, leave him like a fucking army wife and it's just going to hurt the both of them more to start something like this when they know they won't have the time or energy.

"Sooner than you think," Cas says before he fills the room with the familiar sound of flapping wings.

88888

The following weeks drag by. Dean checks out every book in the Sioux Falls library dealing with weapon making or blacksmithing. It's not any different than what he was doing before, he tells himself. He's just changed the subject. From angels to sword making.

The reading is harder than he expected. Harder than the angel lore. At least that had the excuse of being old and in different languages. These books he had now were in plain English and Dean felt like he was trudging through them, barely getting by. Maybe if he hadn't dropped out of high school, paid more attention in World History, actually went to class instead of hooking up with Michelle Peters in the broom closest…

He expressed the concerns to Sam one evening, looming over a cup of coffee that was actually, for the first time in a while, more coffee than bourbon.

"Dean," Sam had said. "You got a GED. That's harder to get than just graduating regularly. You're doing fine."

A week and a half in, Dean discovers YouTube. He discovers that they are actually people posting tutorials on sword making. In his excitement, he knocks his coffee cup over and it spills onto an overdue library book.

"Not turning in a library book is the least illegal illegal thing I've ever done, Sam," he said when Sam commented for the third time about the late notice emails he kept getting.

"If that's even illegal."

The days are spent surfing the web and reading through books. At night, he's cooling and heating the melted blade, then hammering it down till it's as flat as he can get it. He learned that from the one of the videos. You have to cut the blade out of the metal and you can't do that till it's flat enough. It's a cycle of storing it in the ice box and shoving it in the basement furnace, and pounding.

After three days, he feels more exhausted than he has in a long while. A YouTube video he finds has the poster showing off the sword he made all his own. It's more detailed than what he needs, with a decked out handle and Tolkien Elvish branded into the sword. The poster comments that it took him months to finish and Dean's heart drops.

Months?

_Months?!_

That night Dean's coffee is more bourbon than he's had in weeks.

"Dean," Sam says quietly, nudging him gently as he's slumped over the stack of library books. "It's not going to take you months if you don't do it by yourself. Let me help. I want to help."

"I have to do it," Dean mumbles into his elbow.

"Not by yourself. There's nothing wrong with asking for help."

"I have to do it, Sammy."

"C'mon," Sam says, pulling Dean's arm over his neck. "Let's get you to bed."

"No," Dean slurs, drunk and sleep deprived. "I need to work."

"Take a day off," Sam says. "C'mon, stairs. Pick your feet up."

"I can't take a day off. I have to finish it. I have to kill him."

"You will," Sam coaxes. "But it can wait a day. You're not doing anyone any favors running yourself like this. Cas wouldn't want you to run yourself like this."

Dean's quiet for a moment, struggling to life his knees onto the steps. "Low blow," he says eventually, head lolling to the side.

Sam only narrowly avoids throwing Dean across the room into the bed. Dean's knees won't obey his commands and his feet end up dragging against the floor. He trips and almost takes Sam down with him, but Sam shoves him off and onto the bed in time to regain his own balance.

Dean gets a face full of comforter, the stench of detergent burning at his nostrils. It's powerful, overwhelming; but it's also a nice smell. Comforting, homely. Dean moves himself around enough to get orientated with his head on the pillow at his feet pointed towards the bottom. He stuffs his hands underneath his pillow and grasps tightly onto an old, torn, bloodied trench coat that had been too big for its charge.

The coat had been a skin, to be shed away to make room for something better. Like a snake shedding its skin to grow longer or a caterpillar spinning itself into a chrysalis to become a butterfly. This coat had made Cas seem weaker and scrawnier than he actually was, an element that had often worked to his advantage. People underestimated him because of how he looked. Dean had too, when they first met. Underestimated Cas. Actually, Dean had underestimated Cas a lot. Which worked against him.

Dean pulls the coat out from underneath the pillow and holds it close against his face, an indulgence he hasn't allowed himself in sometime. He was instantly reminded of why he had kept the coat hidden from himself when he brought it back. It hurt, having it close; having such a small, yet resonating part of Cas in his space, the scent tainting the air. It brought back memories that hurt, that burned worse than the fires of Hell and cut deeper into his soul than even Alastair's knives had reached.

And Dean was a masochist as much he was a sadist, but having the coat close hurt, but it was a different hurt than he was used to. Like a drowning hurt. It clashed with the hurts he was used to; of closed fists against his face, of stabbing hunger pains when he had to sacrifice his portion of food to Sam, of being electrocuted and having a heart attack, of having hooks pushed through muscle and bone and being strung up against the wall like a party decoration, for demons to stab and claw at and bite and _infect._

Dean pulls the coat tighter to his chest. It hurt to have it so close, but not because of the bad associated but with the good. Because he remembers the stabbing and clawing and infecting, and he remembers being the one doing the stabbing and clawing and infecting, having become infected himself, nothing more than a festered sore on an unsightly dog. And he remembers a light penetrating through the darkness, his first glimpse of sunlight in forty years, and he remembers a feeling akin to standing in an icy shower on a blistering summer day and a voice singing to him, saying

_Come with me, Dean Winchester. It's time to go home. _

It hurts because it doesn't hurt. Because there are more good memories than bad and remembering the good hurts worse than remembering just the bad. Because grief isn't a wound that can be fixed with Jack Daniels and dental floss, or by getting shitfaced and laid or even by castrating himself and just talking about it, like a girl on her period.

Nothing makes it better.

Nothing anyone says makes it any better.

But this coat…it makes everything just a little better. It makes it better while making it worse at the same time, because Dean knows he can't hold onto it forever, eventually he'll have to let it go or drop to pick up a knife or a gun, because that's how the hunting life is. You don't get to grieve. You don't have the time and every moment you sit crying on your ass is a wasted opportunity to be spent tracking down evil sons of bitches and saving innocent people.

But Dean likes the coat, even if it's stained and torn and bloody, even if it brings back bad memories along with the good ones because it had belonged to a bolt of cold lightening that had spent millennia fighting for the betterment of the world until it found its way to Dean and curled itself a home in his heart like it had always been meant to be there.

Like God wanted Dean and Castiel to have each other.

And even though sleeping is the same as crying on your ass—wasted time, tick tock tick tock two seconds you could've been working, you could've been two seconds closer to being finished—it's another indulgence Dean's been denying himself as of late. And if he's going to indulge in one thing, then he might as well go all out.

He closes his eyes and pulls the coat as close to himself as he can and he dreams of brilliant blue eyes looking at him like he made the world.


	16. Part Fourteen

88888

They're in Nashville when it happens. Dean's muscles ache in warning of middle age and Sam's walking with a limp in his right foot, but the nest of vamps is dead now and they only got a little bit of blood sprayed into their faces, so Dean thinks it's a good night. He calls dibs on first shower as Sam reaches the last step, glaring at Dean and when they open the motel door and walk inside, they walk with routine.

There really wasn't any difference between the motels across the continental US. Two queen size beds, with a nightstand dividing them; a single TV pushed up against the opposite wall with a desk next to it and a menu of all the local take out.

Dean throws his duffel onto the bed closer to the A/C unit and heads into the shower, taking special precautions to rub soap over every inch of himself, to wipe away the vampiric smell that's been clinging to him like static.

When he's finished he dresses down in boxers and an AC/DC t-shirt that's probably as old as he is by now and he flops down face first onto the bed, sending the decorative pillows flying off onto the floor. The AC cranks on, sputtering like a stalled engine, before coming to life with a roar and the shower's running as Sam gets in.

It's routine, like they've always done in shitty motel rooms. The good thing about them is you don't have to get used to them. Each one is exactly the same, and it doesn't matter if he's in Texas or Vermont or Washington or Florida, the room is always the same, the employees are always the same, the atmosphere after a hunt is always the same.

It's as close to a home Dean's ever gonna get.

He drifts asleep, snoring and drooling on the pillow because he's just that exhausted when the air grows heavier and the temperature drops just slightly. There's a presence at his bed, inching forward like a frightened animal.

Sam leaps out of his bed like a feral cat and tackles the intruder to the ground just as Dean manages to get the light on. It's a commotion at first, fists flying, knuckles cracking, shouting when they finally get glimpse of their burglar and—

"Jesus, Sam, get off!" Dean yells. "It's just a kid!"

Not that it matters. Dean knows from experience never to underestimate an opponent. Demons weren't above possessing children and adolescent monsters were oftentimes more dangerous than their adult counterparts, unable to control their budding bloodlust and violence.

The kid beneath Sam is a teenager. Probably seventeen or eighteen, wearing the stripped uniform for that wiener hut place Sam always complains about whenever they go to, with a crooked nametag that reads Alfie. He's got short hair and brown eyes, face slightly bruised thanks to Sam's fists, but he's staring at Dean with such intensity it makes him uncomfortable.

"What do you want?" Sam says, pushing himself off the kid.

"Winchester brothers," he says, standing to his feet with total ease, hands out, palms forward in a submissive gesture, "my name is Samandriel."

Angel, Dean thinks and he tenses up. Angels weren't good news. As of late, angels were worse news than demons.

"I am a friend of Castiel's."

Dean relaxes marginally, but he still keeps his hand inched towards his gun. Granted, it won't do much against an angel except to slow him down, but at least it's something.

"I've never heard Cas mention you before. How did you even find us?" Cas was able to find them despite the rib carvings because Dean more or less constantly prayed and that was like a homing beacon.

Samandriel's eyes waver slightly and he licks his lips, an oddly human gesture he must've picked up from Cas, Dean concludes.

"Your car," Samandriel said in a swallow. "Castiel told me to look for your car. Please, I am one of his soldiers, if you would only let me see him, he would explain."

"See him?" Sam echoes. He looks back towards Dean. Dean shrugs and Samandriel's eyes deplore.

"He is…not with you?" And god, his heart sounds like it's breaking and Dean suddenly feels for this angel kid.

"We haven't seen Cas in a few weeks," Sam answers.

"What's wrong?" Dean says, pushing his way past Sam. "Where's Cas?"

Samandriel—Alfie, Dean mentally dubs him—looks to the floor. "I was so sure certain," he whispers, "that he would be with the two of you."

"Hey, kid," Dean snaps, "Alfie! Mind filling us in on what the hell is going on?"

When Samandriel meets Dean's eyes, he wished he hadn't asked. Samandriel sighs and strands straight, pulling his shoulders in tight.

"Our army was ambushed. Raphael…Raphael has fought unfairly the entirety of this war, but this last battle was ruthless. It is still uncertain how he obtained the forces he did, but clearly he managed to sway some of the neutral parties in Heaven to his cause. It was the fiercest collision in this war so far and the casualties, on both sides, was immense—"

"Get to the fucking point!" Dean yelled.

And tears look like they're threatening to fall from Samandriel's eyes. "Castiel hasn't been seen in three days."

All of the blood in Dean's body leaves in one single whoosh to the ground. His knees buckle and his chest tightens and he can't breathe suddenly.

"What?" is all that manages to crawl up his throat and out past his lips and it's a whisper, barely there as is hangs in the air.

"He was injured, that much I do know. I saw him before the battle ceased. I thought…I was so sure, Dean Winchester," Samandriel's voice rises with emotion. The AC unit sputters loudly and smoke starts to seep out from behind.

"Hey, hey," Sam says, touching Samandriel gently on the shoulder, "it's okay, just calm down and tell us what happened."

"I was so sure he had to come to you for aid. But if he's not here and no one has seen him for days…"

The smoke pooling out the AC unit starts to turn black. Sam tries to get Samandriel to breathe with him, to calm down, but it's only barely working. Dean sits down on the bed, having tuned out Sam and the angel, listens only to the pounding of blood in his ears.

Cas is hurt and missing.

No, Dean thinks as he shakes his head. That's not quite right.

Cas is hurt and he was _taken. _

There is no other possibility. Because Samandriel/Alfie is right. If Cas was hurt, he would've come to Dean for help. He always came to Dean if he was hurt. The only reason Cas wouldn't have come to him was if Cas couldn't come.

"He took him," Dean mumbles to himself. Raphael had Cas. Has had Cas for three days.

"Oh, God," Dean moans. His imagination is getting ahead of him now and he's seeing Cas chained up and tortured. And he remembers the last time Raphael had Cas and god, if there was nothing to stop him the first time what was going to stop him now?

Rape.

The word is like a hammer against his skull. He sees Cas chained up, tortured and raped and he dashes for the bathroom, his head in the toilet before he even realizes he stood up.

He vomits everything in his system and his stomach spams painfully with each following dry heave. He pants heavily though his mouth and he rests his forehead against the cool lid of the toiler, eyes burning.

He couldn't protect Cas, couldn't protect Cas, couldn't keep his promise, Castiel's come to him, crying, Cas is standing before a bay window with blinding light coming through, shoving Dean away _I'll hold them all off! _Castiel's bloody and bruised and crying, confused because he doesn't understand how he can want the things that hurt him, he can barely stand being touch already how the hell is he ever going to want anyone to touch him ever again if he has to suffer again, Dean was supposed to show him, but he couldn't protect Cas.

"Dean?" Sam says cautiously. Dean risks looking up. Sam is as pale faced as Dean. He has his laptop balancing on his hip. Samandriel is still in the back of the motel room, looking at them with something like pity and fear.

"I tracked his phone," Sam says and Dean lets out a choked breathe. God, did Cas even still have that phone? They hadn't used it in so long, both preferring just praying to Cas as their means of connection.

"The last signal was eight hours ago. From Denver."

Denver, Colorado? They were in Tennessee. Barring traffic, that would still take seventeen hours. Dean was standing suddenly, shoving his way past Sam towards Samandriel. He shoved Samandriel up against the wall with ease—the angel clearly wasn't fighting back, because Dean shouldn't have been able to do that.

"Take us there," he snaps.

Samandriel licks his lips again. "I can't," he answers.

Dean slams his back against the wall. "Why not?"

"I am not powerful enough to take passengers with me in flight. The most likely scenario would be that I would drop you and your brother in space where the pressure and lack of oxygen would cause the both of you to explode."

"Then just take me!"

"Dean!" Sam snaps.

Samandriel looks at Dean apologetically. "I'm sorry, Dean. It would…it would probably kill you."

And it's like that time Dean bullied Cas into taking both him and Sam back to the seventies to save their parents and Cas told them he wasn't sure if he was powerful enough and Dean just kept pushing and pushing and Cas almost died because of all the energy it had taken him. Cas had been apologetic about it when he denied Dean the first time, just like Samandriel was now. And Dean kept pushing and pushing and pushing until Cas caved and when they all came back, Cas had vomited blood and promptly passed out where he stayed still as death for three days. Because Dean asked Cas to take him.

Somehow Dean is sure he won't be able to get Samandriel to break like he got Cas to.

Dean swallows and grabs his duffel, swinging it over his shoulder before he begins digging through the nightstand for the car keys.

"C'mon then," he snaps towards Sam. "We gotta get going."

He's out the door and heading down the steps before Sam's even got all his shit gathered together, hastily throwing it into his duffel and only zipping it halfway. He throws his bag into the backseat and has the key in the ignition before Sam's down the last step and when gigantor finally gets into the passenger seat, Dean's praying.

_Hang on Cas, _he says, gripping the steering wheel tight as he shifts into reverse. _I'm coming. _Drive. _I'll be there as fast as I can but you gotta hang on until then, okay?_

He floors it, despite Sam's bitching and he drives and drives and drives, keeping up the internal mantra of prayer, of _just hang on, I'm coming, be there fast as I can, but you gotta hang on_

_I love you_

_I love you_

_I love you._

88888

Dean had his shop set up in Bobby's basement because it has an old wood furnace. Beside him, he has Samandriel, who stands stiffly in the corner and watches with an interested eye as Dean sets up the various tools on the metallic table.

He's careful with the flatware that used to be liquid in tubberware. Every time he touches it, he treats it with the same attention as one would a baby.

Dean sighs. "I gotta be honest, Alfie," he says. "I really have no clue what the hell I'm doing." He's read the material and watched all the YouTube videos, but seeing and doing are two different things and he destroys everything he touches.

"If it makes you feel any better, neither do I."

"Thanks," Dean says dryly, but he can't to smirk. "But I mean, it can't be that hard, can it? An angel should be able to make an angel blade, right?"

"Weaponry was anointed only to the most elite of Heaven."

"But Cas made his own. He told me all about it."

"Did Castiel also tell you he was taken to task when his illegal blade was discovered?"

Dean bit into his lip. "No, he didn't mention that."

Dean pulls out the sharpie and marks out the shape of the angel blade. His hand is steady and flawless, lines straight and thick, but he still manages to get it on his palms and they smudge with concentrated sweat. He's only got one shot at this, only one blade he can pull out of this thin, long plank of metal he's melted and cooled and oiled for weeks straight. If he messes up, it's game over and he'll never be able to kill Raphael, never avenge Cas.

Dean can't let himself think like that. He starts up the buzz saw. Samandriel is eyeing him wearily, but remains quiet. Dean wonders.

"Is Alfie in there with you?"

He fires up the saw and slowly leads the melted silver into the teeth, carefully following the lines he's made.

"Yes."

It slices easier than Dean thinks it should. He finishes up one side. Dean turns around. "That must be kind of weird, wearing a teenager like that." He recalls Castiel briefly taking Jimmy Novak's daughter, watched as power radiated from the hands of a tiny, little girl that took down demons.

Samandriel pulls at the collar of his uniform. "I understand how it might seem odd to you. But an angel's true vessel is beyond his control. And I feel take taking the vessel younger is more merciful. I would've had to take Alfie eventually and I'm glad I did it before he got the chance to experience things he would miss, like a career or a wife and child."

"Denying him those experiences is more merciful than taking him away from them?"

"You disagree?"

Dean tilts the metal, switching it around and he begins the cutting out the other side. "No," he says eventually.

Not knowing is different than knowing and having it taken away. Pain was part of the human condition, but so was do everything possible to avoid pain. And at least Alfie was guaranteed a one way ticket to Heaven, where he would get to lay out whatever adolescent sex fantasy he wanted for all of forever.

Dean finishes the second side, now holding in his hand something sword like. The edges aren't clean and flat, but jagged in some parts where the saw caught, giving it an almost serrated look. And it's not as thin as Cas's had been, sitting heavily in his hands like a weight, but it's something where he used to have nothing.

It's still not quite done yet. It needs a spit and shine, needs to be better than good enough to quell the nausea in Dean's stomach. He lights up Bobby's furnace and places the blade in inside, leaving the door open. He kneels on his heels and watches the fire dance, the colors blend in shades of oranges and reds and blues.

It's not like Hell. People had the misconception of Hell being red because it was associated with fire, but that wasn't quite the case. Mostly, Dean remembers black, the absence of color, of hope and laughter and life.

The colors catch on the metal of the blade and crawl upwards, giving it a tint and Dean remembers red blades coming down on him, slicing into the soft flesh of his neck and chest and genitals, remembers Alastair's thin sickly hands covering his eyes to heal him so they could start over, his voice singing

_All you have to do is say "yes" Dean and it'll all be over, just say "yes" one word, one syllable and you'll never hurt again._

"Dean?" Samandriel's worried voice pulls Dean out. He blinks owlishly and reaches for the handle sticking out, but when he touches it, he reels back at once, stuffing his fingers into the cool safety of his mouth.

"Fuck!" He screams around them, stamping his feet. He can already feel the skin beginning to grow pus filled blisters and the appendages starting to swell.

Samandriel looks from Dean to the furnance. "Allow me," he says quietly before he sticks his hand into the fire and pulls at the blade wordlessly. He carries it to the table and drops it in the tub of oil Dean had set up on the nearby floor. Steam billows up like a chimney with a snake like hissing noise and Samandriel holds it there until the steam stops. He rests the blade on the table top and turns to Dean.

"Let me," he says, tugging on Dean's wrist.

The pain stops at once and Dean sluggishly pulls his fingers from his mouth, wiping the salvia on his jeans. He looks at his fingers; they are normal colored and blister free.

"Thanks," Dean mumbles, hoarse.

Samandriel nods and breaths out his nose. "Do you have the blood?"

Dean digs in his jacket pocket and pulls out the handkerchief he's kept safely all this time. He hesitates a moment before passing it off to Samandriel. It's instinctive to hold back, keep it to himself. He's the only person he can trust and even then, not really. If he can barely trust himself, how is he to ever trust anyone else, ever?

Dean swallows and risks it, letting Samandriel take it. It's stupid. He knows, intellectually, that he can trust Samandriel. Samandriel wants to help him; Samandriel wants to avenge Cas too.

But there's a nagging voice in his head he can't shut up that says

_Never know never know never know_

That's been nestled in the back of his brain ever since he was four and he had to carry his baby brother out of their burning house and become a parent to his brother.

Samandriel mumbles something in Enochian and raises one hand above the stained cloth. The blood rises from it, like water from the ground, in a string that dances beneath Samandriel's fingertips. The concentration Samandriel has for it is intense, glaringly obvious. It's the Angel Glare, that unadulterated fury, godly power shoved into a meat suit breaking through. It's mesmerizing to Dean because it reminds him just what angels really are. Oftentimes, it was easy to forget that the vessels he saw weren't their real bodies, that they were something grand and far away, with voices that would shatter his ear drums and forms that would make his brain melt out nose.

Samandriel continues chanting and the blood bubbles to a boil. He carries it, still suspended in the air to the work station and drops it on top of the blade.

The blade glows white and whines, just a few decibels, like an old lightbulb, and then it goes out and is left blackened by the fires.

Dean stares and swallows.

"Is that it?"

"I will have to capture the air element," Samandriel says, reaching for the blade. Dean shuts out the voice in his head again, he can trust Samandriel, it's only Alfie, it's just Alfie. "But, yes; the blood has taken."

"That was…anticlimactic."

"Were you expecting fireworks?"

Dean shoots a look at Samandriel. Samandriel only smiles shyly in return. Dean looks at the blade in Samandriel's hand, notices how oddly he has to hold it.

"I did it wrong," Dean says.

"You did it perfectly," Samandriel says.

"It's ugly."

He ruined Cas's blade. He ruins everything he touches and now he's ruined Cas's blade that Cas made himself in secrecy, that Cas pooled his own blood and grace into.

"Only on the outside," Samandriel says softly. He's looking closely at Dean now and it makes Dean uneasy. Angels, he thought. He didn't understand. Most of the angels hated him for many things. He was rude, disrespectful, hedonistic, blasphemous; he tore apart the destiny they'd spent all of forever planning.

And yet, there were these select few angels that looked at him like _that. _Complete adoration and respect and fidelity. He recalls how Raphael told him one time, that Cas saw him as a God-substitute and he denied it at the time, but he has a hard time denying it to himself now because how can he when Samandriel is looking at him like _that_, when Cas looked at him like he was everything?

"On the inside," Samandriel continues, turning the blade around in his hand, "the inside is where all the power is really at. On the inside courses the blood of the last remaining archangel, one of the few to have seen Father's face; and the love and dedication of the Righteous Man. It will work, Dean. You just need to have faith."

_Your problem is you have no faith. _

Dean smiles weakly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "It's hard, though."

"But isn't that what you humans are best at? Believing in something greater than yourself? It doesn't have to be God; it can be love or truth. But if you don't believe, why would you bother looking? There's power in belief, Dean. Great power."

And then Samandriel was gone, taking the blade with him to run it through the clouds.


	17. Interlude: Castiel

_AN: I couldn't do a limited POV with Cas like I could with Sam and Bobby. His perspective and voice is incredibly unique and I wasn't able to do it. So for this chapter I went for an omniscient voice. Let's hope it was the right choice. _

_Interlude_

He knew nothing at first, but harmony as he sang with his brothers and sisters, as they praised their Father in unison and watched over His newest creation, these odd, foreign things He called _humans. _

And then came the Fall that forever divided Heaven, that locked Lucifer in the Cage located at the bottom of the deepest pit in Hell and forced Michael into his own kind of depressed, enraged solitude. He didn't see the great battle, but he did feel the fissure that ripped through Heaven, that divided his brethren, that set up the caste system.

After the Fall, he knew nothing but violence and righteous judgement and that as a child of Jehovah it was his duty to duel out both. He had to shed the skin of Castiel and regrow like serpent into Angel of the Lord, Warrior of God, with no room in between to be anything else. And for millennia, he smote demons and rogue angels and bowed to his superiors for guidance and duty—because their commands came from Father, how could they be anything but just? As one of the many of thousands not blessed to know their Father's face, who was he to question the motives of those who were?

He knew this violence and judgement for so long he forgot that there had once been a time when he knew more.

He climbed the ranks of the Heavenly army at an unnatural speed until he became the youngest captain the ranks had ever seen. Strong, they said, intelligent; but not strong enough. Too sympathetic, too kind, qualities that guided him to watch over humanity in all her glory with a childlike curiosity. Reasons they gave for never promoting him to the next rank, reasons for withholding a blade that was rightfully his.

He was made an example of before the Host and then his illegal blade was forgotten about as other priorities came ahead and the destiny that had been written in the stars since the birth of man was to come to fruition.

When Castiel flew through the fires of Hell, he saw the Righteous Man's soul, a beacon of light in a sea of never ending darkness. Despite the decades of taint and demonic influence that had swallowed him since the first hellhound bite, he was still pure and good and holy—the Michael Sword.

And that's what he was as Castiel raised his soul and rebuilt his decomposed body cell by cell.

Until the defeat of Samhain and a conversation that never should have taken place. And in one look, the entire dynamic between Castiel and the Righteous Man shifted. The cogs on the wheel fell out of place, they wouldn't fit _right _anymore, never would again, and the Righteous Man—Dean—forced Castiel to recognize unpleasant truths about himself and about Heaven and destiny.

So, he committed, as Dean would call it, "social suicide" and joined sides with the Righteous Man and the Boy with the Demon Blood, not just in battle, but in family.

Family.

The word resonates something in Castiel, because he once thought he had a family. Once, he never would've dared to call the other angels anything but brother and sister. But after joining with Dean and Sam and Bobby Singer, Castiel realized that was a family. He didn't have with the angels what Dean and Sam had with each other.

And the farther he Fell, the more human he became, the more he felt. Envy was a revelation to him. He was envious of Sam Winchester, because his brother loved him so much, he sold his soul just so he wouldn't have to live alone. Castiel knew none of his brothers would ever do the same for him.

And when Castiel Fell, he knew love. It seemed right, that he and Dean Winchester would fall in love. Castiel bore him from the grasps of Hell, but Dean saved him too; Dean taught him free will and humanity, Dean taught him to be his own person.

It was only fair that after stopping one apocalypse, they should stop another. When Raphael first threatened Castiel with his join or die deal, Castiel refused instantly. There was no other option for him. Not just to protect the Earth he fought so hard to save once, but because the other angels deserved to know the happiness Castiel knew; they deserved to know free will and family.

Dean was unhappy. He found no true happiness by living with that kind woman and her son, and when Sam finally returned to Dean some months later, soulless (though Dean hadn't known that at the time) he left instantly with his brother to go hunting once more because that's who Dean was, a hunter, forever and always.

Castiel couldn't ask Dean to aide him, after all he'd already given. Besides, the war was in Heaven, between Castiel's dwindling army and Raphael's ever expanding one. It would not touch Earth unless Raphael succeeded in his initial plans to free Michael and Lucifer.

And that had been his plan. At first.

He remembered being tied down, remembered the demons touching him, every inch, prodding at intimate places, and it burned. And Balthazar was screaming and Raphael was sneering as he told Castiel of his new plans, of how he would leave Earth alone, but would instead rule Heaven, would replace their absent Father and be a new, better God. Castiel knew shame when he was let go and cried in front of Dean, having retreated to him because Dean was safe, Dean was comfort and love and Dean could take the hurt away, take the shame away if only for a moment.

He knew want as he and Dean stood in that small, motel bathroom; a different kind of burning than what the demons did to him, and he knew cold when he told Dean they had to wait. It wasn't safe for them to engage while the war still raged, it wouldn't be right, Castiel was needed in Heaven and he loved Dean, he did, but the war had to be his priority. The sooner the war was over, the sooner he and Dean and Sam would all be safe. The sooner it would safe for him and Dean to want.

He knew pain when Raphael captured and cut into him, knew it as Raphael broke his wings inch by inch down the bones, snapping them too easily in half. He knew pain as blood painted his face and chest, knew it as Raphael stabbed his blade into Castiel's back and dragged it down his spine.

And he knew hope when a familiar voice tugged at the recesses of mind, promises of rescue and comfort, he just had to hold on, hold on, wait a little bit longer and _Dean _would save him,

He knew terror when Raphael threw Dean and Sam into walls, across the floor, with little more than a flick of his wrist.

And when there was a hole where his heart should be, bleeding grace and red, he stared into tear filled eyes looking down on him, screaming at him, and the darkness ebbed in closer, eating at his vision, he heard a familiar voice from a long time ago calling to him, guiding him.

_How was it, Castiel? _His father's voice sang to him.

And at last Castiel knew _peace. _


	18. Part Fifteen

_Guys, please don't forget to vote for Jensen and Misha for the Teen Choice awards for Best Chemistry. It'll be huge for the fandom if they win. You can vote on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram, just make a post that says My #TeenChoice for #ChoiceTVChemistry is #Destiel. You can vote on each of these platforms once a day for a total of three times a day. Voting closes July 24, so please make the most of these last few days. Let's win this for Dean and Cas!_

Samandriel comes back only a few hours later.

With company.

Bobby begins cursing, Sam stifles laughter behind a giant hand, and Dean is, for once in his life, left speechless.

Samandriel is in Bobby's junkyard. Behind him stand hundreds of angels, in all kinds of variant vessels. Men, women, teenagers, black, white, Asian, bikers and soccer moms. They stand ramrod straight, arms behind their backs, looking right at him.

"Alfie," Dean says wearily, "what's going on?"

Samandriel approaches Dean carefully. When they stand merely inches apart, Samandriel's worried breath hot on Dean's face, he sinks to his knees and pulls out the familiar angel blade, handing it out towards Dean.

Dean takes it slowly, his hands shaking. The blade looks the same, but it feels different, vastly so. It feels holier.

Samandriel stands to his feet and reaches out to touch the blade. "In the name of Samandriel," he says, "I bless this blade. Glory be to Castiel."

He steps out of the way.

"What?" Dean says. His mouth feels dry suddenly, but Samandriel gives him a pointed look and stands beside Dean.

Another angel comes up and touches the blade just as Samandriel did. "In the name of Loriel, I bless this blade. Glory be to Castiel." He steps away.

Dean looks back to Samandriel just as another angel steps up. "Alfie?"

"These are Castiel's loyalists," he says calmly.

"In the name of Wariel, I bless this blade. Glory be to Castiel."

And they continue to step up, one by one, single file, with the same Look Samandriel has, the same Look Cas always gave him, staring down at the blade so fiercely, Dean fears they may actually burn holes into it.

"In the name of—

"Muriel—

"Jedidiah—

"Meriam—

"Malachi—

"Hannah—

"Josephine—

"Markiel—

"I bless this blade."

"Glory be to Castiel."

By the time the last angel says his blessing, it's well past sun set and Dean's face is sticky with dry tear stains. He hesitates to turn around and see the destruction. There are two hundred angels, saddened and grieved by Cas's death just as he has been; maybe not to the extent, but they felt. They grieved. They still stand by Cas's memory.

He exhales deeply and wipes at his face and he forces himself to turn around. He locks eyes with Samandriel and mouths a 'thank you'. Samandriel nods. Dean clears his throat and holds the blade high to the sky.

"I promise you guys," he says. "I will not let you down. I will not let Cas down. We're gonna end this once and for all, okay?"

There is a murmur in the crowd. Dean can't make out the words; it sounds like gibberish to him, but it must be Enochian.

Dean sighs through his nose and watches the moonlight dance off the metal of the blade. It's still pretty fugly. Bulky and serrated, and though it's lighter than what it was before Samandriel pumped it full of clouds, it's still an unusual weight in his hands.

But if it can do its job…

"I'm gonna gank me an archangel," he says.

The angels murmur again in Enochian, in perfect sync and then they speak again in English.

"Glory be to Castiel."

Dean bites down on to his lip. He tilts the blade experimentally in his hand, catching reflections of himself, of Bobby and Sam, of the angels. "Yeah," he says. "Glory be and whatnot."

88888

It takes too damn long to get to Denver. They left Nashville when it was still dark out and are coming into Denver when it's become dark again. When they entered the state, Sam began figuring out the latitudes and longitudes or whatever the fuck to try and locate Cas's precise location, but the signal had been dead for hours already and what if Cas wasn't even there anymore what if Raphael moved him what if there was no way to find him he's an angel he could be literally anywhere, he could be on fucking _Mars _and Dean would have no way of knowing and even less way of ever finding Cas what if what if what if—

"Dean, breathe," Sam says.

Dean tries, but chokes briefly and goes into a coughing fit.

Sam eyes him wearily, still tapping out on his phone and Dean doesn't like the look in Sam's eyes, the pity.

"It'll be okay," Sam says. "Cas is tough. It's nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He'll be alright."

_You can't know that, _Dean wants to say. He bites his lip instead. He feels his blood pressure rising at the same time, hating what Sam is insinuating. Because Cas has endured torture before, he'll be okay to go through it again?

A dichotomy rifts between Dean, anger at Sam for not understanding, but also relief because Sam doesn't understand. At least Dean's torturer was a demon, something evil incarnate, something you would expect it to come from. Cas's experience with torture had come from his brothers, his family.

But he also knows that Sam is only trying to appease him. Sam must be worried too because his hair keeps sliding into his eyes and he's not bothering trying to tuck it behind his ears.

"Got it," Sam says. "It looks like there should be a string of warehouses right outside Denver. The signal's coming from inside one of them."

"Warehouse," Dean says slowly, tasting the words. "That's kind of clichéd."

It always seemed to be warehouses.

"I never gave angels or demons credit for their originality," Sam says. "They follow scripts." Sam pauses for a moment. Dean feels Sam eating into him with those beady little eyes of his. "You want me to drive for a bit? You've gotta be exhausted."

"I'll be fine," Dean snaps.

"You're not gonna do Cas any good—"

"I said I got it, Sam!"

Driving helped him relax, gave him a focus. He could ignore everything else, forget it even exists, when he was driving because the road and the traffic became important, became the only other things in existence besides himself. If he was driving, he could force himself to forget, if only briefly, about the reason he was driving.

"Okay," Sam says quietly. "Offer still stands, though, if you do want to switch later."

Dean grinds his teeth together and coaxes the Impala to drive just a little faster. He vaguely listens to Sam's directions and it only takes another half hour to arrive at the location. Dean only barely remembers to put the car in park and he forgets his keys in the ignition by the time he's jumped out and racing towards the building.

It's rundown, with holes in the roof and blood sigils painted on the walls. Dean looks at them, his mouth dry. He can't read them, has zero clue about what they mean and what they do, but finds himself amazed and terrified at the number painted on. They're drawn large, taking up huge amounts of surface area that seem to glow an unearthly blue deep behind the stark red, drawn in circles and curves and S's.

Dean's breath catches in his throat and he's afraid of what's behind that door. He's stood up to the devil and the first angel God ever made, but Lucifer and Michael were never able to hold a candle to Raphael. Raphael breathed intensity, lacked Lucifer's juvenile humor, lacked Michael's pitiful obedience to his absent father. Dean reminds himself, Raphael isn't doing this to fulfill some skewed version of destiny, to appease a deadbeat God: he's doing this so he can _become_ God, take over his daddy's business. And Cas had faced against Lucifer and Michael together with his chin held high and a fire of fight burning in his eyes. It was Raphael that scared him the most, Raphael that obliterated him once long ago, that made his eyes waver and his shoulders back down. Raphael is the worst of them all.

And Cas is trapped and alone with him, must be terrified out of goddamned mind.

Dean remembers that Raphael once commented that Cas's pride was his biggest fault. He realizes that Raphael is a hypocrite. He's proud too, prouder than Cas even because Cas is fighting this war to free the angels from Heaven's bureaucracy, not replace his deadbeat dad.

Dean rushes to the door and his heart sinks when he twists the knob and it turns. The door's unlocked, it's a trap, of course it's a trap, but what is he supposed to do? He can't not go in, Cas needs him.

"Dean, wait," Sam says rushing to his side. "We can't just bust in without a plan."

"We can't wait out here scratching our asses, either! C'mon, Sammy, guns blazing is what we Winchesters do best!"

Dean doesn't wait for Sam to reply. He turns the knob and rushes inside, the Colt in hand. Sam's heavy footsteps follow behind him, but when Dean's in far enough to get an eyesight of the setting, he stops and Sam only narrowly avoids ramming into him.

The first thing that catches Dean's attention is the stench of blood and ash in the air. Holy fire, he thinks, and it makes his stomach churn. It's a distinct, unforgettable smell, one that locks itself away in memory.

The next thing is that there is blood everywhere. It coats the floor like a shiny wax, sticking to Dean's boot soles.

In the two seconds it took to take all that in, Dean sees Cas and Raphael and his heart drops into his stomach. They're in the far corner and Cas is prostrated on his knees near the wall, hands shackled tightly to it with so little slack, he has no choice but to stand awkwardly on his knees, having no room to sit. He's drenched in blood and sweat. It sticks his hair to his forehead and it's stained his clothing. He has a black eye and swollen lips, but the biggest injury that catches Dean's attention is Cas's back. It's hidden beneath the coat, but the hideous, massive blood stain that trails from the shoulders to the small of the back doesn't give Dean any good vibes.

Their eyes lock for a brief second and so many emotions pass between them: fear, relief, sadness and, anger? Dean thinks he sees it, but he's not sure and he can't think about it right now because Raphael is looming over Cas, angel blade in his hand and it's tacky with blood dripping from the tip. He puts the tip underneath Cas's chin and forces it up so that Cas has to look him in the eye.

"See Castiel? I knew your little mice wouldn't resist coming to your rescue."

"Let them be," Cas rasps out, desperation bleeding from his voice. "Your fight is with me. Let them go."

"Indeed, my fight is with you, Castiel. But you have so little self-preservation, it's almost not worth my time. Believe me, if it weren't for the self-satisfaction it gives me, I wouldn't have wasted my time with you these last few days. No, the real way to hurt you is to hurt them, is it not?"

"Cas…" Dean says slowly. He can't move, not even his pinky finger and he knows Raphael has to be responsible for this.

"Run," Cas wheezes, eyes locking with him again. It's barely audible, and Dean more reads his lips than actually hears the word.

"What?"  
"Take Sam and leave."

Now Dean understands the anger he saw flash in Cas's eyes earlier. It was anger for putting himself in unnecessary danger. For pulling Sam into it with him. Because Cas was fighting this war in the Winchester name, to protect Earth and humanity and defend free will yada yada, but Dean knew that Cas was also fighting this war for _him. _Like, in his honor and glory and shit. And as scary as that was, it was equally infuriating, because how come Cas was allowed to put his neck on the line for Dean, but Dean couldn't do the same for him? Hell, Cas may not have had that much self-preservation, but he had a hell lot more than Dean did.

Dean blinks—it seems to be the only conscious movement he can make—and he says, "I'm not leaving you."

Raphael tilts his head and squints, like he's studying them. He spares a pitiful glance down towards Castiel, whose breath make it sound like he's got glass in his lungs, before looking back at Dean, anger icing his glare.

He flicks his wrist and Dean is thrown across the floor like a sack of flour. He hits the far war, the air knocked out of his lungs and stars litter his vision.

"No!" Castiel yells, followed by the rustling of his chains. He's pulling manically, tugging so hard Dean briefly wonders how Cas hasn't managed to bring the wall down on top of himself. Sam's yelling too and then he ends up next to Dean, cursing and begins nursing a bloody lip.

"Son of a bitch," Sam mumbles, the swollen lip mumbling his words.

"Let them go," Cas is saying and he's panicking and that's enough to set Dean's nerves on fire. Cas is calm and collected and full of Zen or whateverthefuck, Dean's never heard him this panicked, not even when he came to Dean crying and in pain. "Do what you want with me, but let them go."

"Why can't I have all of you?" Raphael says. "Of course, it wouldn't be any fun it you don't fight back." Raphael snaps his fingers and Cas's chains break free. He lands on his hands and knees, gasping for breath.

Raphael presents his sword. "Fight me, Castiel."

Cas's blade slides out of his sleeve and he lunges towards Raphael. Dean watches from his spot. He can move, Raphael no longer has him paralyzed, but something else is keeping him still. It's mesmerizing, watching Cas fight, watching him lunge and gnaw at his lip. It was easy for forget that Cas wasn't actually human. He was something unearthly and powerful and terrifying.

Raphael blocks every move Cas makes. They circle each other like animals, and as Dean watches, he thinks they're really not any different than that. The noises they make, growling and huffing, scraping at the ground with their heels. They rush at each other again, their blades clashing against the others, creating blue sparks. They're deadlocked, blades grinding against each other and the blue sparks fly up to the sky. Cas slams his elbow hard into Raphael's face, enough to draw blood, but Raphael snatches onto Cas's arm and throws Cas behind him, an audible snap filling the room, before he pushes Cas down to the floor, hard on his face.

"Cas!" Dean screams, paralysis suddenly broken. He rushes towards Raphael, gun cocked and drawn and he fires. His hands are shaky, though, and the bullet only grazes the tip of his ear.

Raphael turns to face Dean and the Colt flies from his hands into the wall. Dean swallows with that gaze on him, the fire burning underneath those eyes. He had forgotten that Raphael's vessel had been a sickly man, catatonic, vegetative. Dean wonders briefly if that man is still in there somewhere and what he must make of the situation; he went from being trapped inside his head to being trapped inside his head, with company.

Raphael raises his hand and Dean's chest constricts. He falls to his knees and hands, blood spilling from his mouth and nose. "Do you not remember when Zachariah gave you stomach cancer?"

Pain shots up Dean's side, liquid agony, like he's being stabbed and he cries out.

"Appendicitis is also an interesting condition. It appears suddenly, with nearly no warning, and if not treated properly will kill you within hours as pus and acids flee into your blood stream, swim to your heart and brain and back."

Sam flies in out of nowhere, rushing past Dean towards Raphael with the demon blade and he goes for Raphael's heart, but with a flick of the wrist, Sam is thrown like a ragdoll into the far wall, where he lands unconscious.

Dean's vision is blurring as the pain increases. But he sees the clear colors and shape of Castiel as he stands and attacks Raphael from behind. But Raphael must have eyes on the back of his head or something because he turns before Cas gets the chance to raises his blade to strike and his hand is wrapped tightly around his throat.

"Leave them alone," Cas gasps in-between breaths. Dean can't see Raphael's face, but Cas is focused intensely on it, like it's the only thing in the world.

Suddenly the pain is gone and Dean can breathe again. The stabbing, burning, erased in the blink of an eye.

"Why, Castiel?"

Cas tries to pry Raphael's fingers away, but it's a futile effort. "Father told us to bow to them. It is they who are made in his image."

"Father is as deluded as you are then. Look at them, Castiel. Look how fragile. How weak. Even an angel as Fallen and disgraced as yourself, as weak as yourself, would need nothing more than the mere will and you could kill them. They were given only one task, God established one law and they failed to abide by that one single sense of order and damned the entirety of their race for eternity."

"It's the human condition," Cas manages. "And we are no better, brother. We battle and slay in the name of God, but God hasn't been around for a long while. Where do the orders come from, if not from God? And if they do not come from God, how can we continue to commit atrocities in His name? It's _blasphemy_."

Raphael's tone drops dangerously low; wistful, almost, Dean thinks, like he could be on the verge of tears if he were capable of such an act as human as crying. "You are still much too young. You shouldn't speak of things beyond your comprehension. You weren't _there._"

And Dean doesn't need to ask to know what Raphael is speaking of.

But he doesn't get the chance to think much more on the subject because Raphael slams Cas hard onto the ground, flat on his back and the concrete underneath cracks, fissures splitting open.

"Cas," Dean says, but his mouth is still tacky with blood.

"It is my legacy!" Raphael says, and a buzz sticks to the air. "Lucifer, Gabriel, they are nothing more than spoiled children. Michael, a selfish coward. Of us four, I am the most loyal!" He punches Cas in the face. "I battled the Darkness, I swore fealty to a being more powerful than myself, a being that was underserving of anything I ever had to offer!"

Dean slowly inches to the duo. It's suicide. He's weaponless, and his fists would break at any sort of conflict with Raphael, who's boiling with fury as he wails on Cas, venting all his frustrations.

"So you'll be a better God?" Cas says; his words are slurred, his lips so swollen and face bruised.

"You don't know," Raphael hisses. "You've never even _seen _Him."

Raphael stands to his full height and keeps Cas pinned to the ground with his foot. "You've never even seen Him and yet He rewards you with life. I did what I was supposed to do, what He would have me do if He were still here that night at the Prophet's house and He brought you back. If God won't even play by His own rules, Castiel, then it's a free for all and I have nothing to lose."

Dean reaches Raphael and he grabs tightly onto the back of his shirt and pulls.

But Raphael turns to face him again and he grabs onto Dean's throat. Dean feels the fingers curling around his windpipe and he realizes that Raphael is purposely dragging it out, he wants Dean to die slowly and painfully.

"Do you ever learn, you arrogant, barbaric shit throwing mud monkey?"

Circulation has already cut off, as well as oxygen, and Dean's head feels fuzzy. His vision ebbs away so he doesn't see Cas stagger to his feet and run Raphael down like a linebacker; he hits hard enough to make Raphael let go of him and Dean falls to the ground, flat on his ass, hands instinctively rubbing at his sore throat as he begins to breathe freely.

In the end, it's nearly anticlimactic. He hears Raphael's voice, but is unable to make out the words. Dean thinks they're still arguing about God and his heart seizes, because he knows it doesn't matter what Raphael says, Cas will defend their deadbeat dad across the cosmos. Dean sees Raphael and Cas quarrel, landing punches and near misses with their blades and then—

And then, Cas slips, misses a step because he's listing so hard to the right. Because he's hurt and Raphael isn't. Because Raphael is stronger and faster an archangel and Cas is just a bottom of the tier, nothing special little foot solider. Raphael grabs a hard grip on Cas's shoulder and spins him around and he plunges his blade through Cas's back and it comes out straight the other side of his chest, piercing his heart.

And because his life is a fucking mess, with clichés and tropes out of a fucking Nicholas Sparks novel, it goes in slow motion when it happens.

Cas makes a pained, breathless noise and Raphael leans in close to his ear and says, "Is this what God would have me do with my free will, Castiel?" before he yanks his blade out—twisting it as he does so- and shoves Cas to the floor. Raphael is gone with a large gust of wind before Cas hits the floor.

Dean thinks he screams, but he's not sure. He's momentarily deaf from the blood pounding in his ears. He stumbles to where Cas is lying face down on the ground and he's not moving and there's just blood everywhere and Dean can't breathe—

He flips Cas over onto his back and pulls him up into his lap. He's talking the entire time he's pulling off his jacket, using it to staunch the wound that's bleeding grace, blue lightning, and—

"It's okay, Cas," Dean says, pressing hard onto the wound. Cas is looking up at him, an unfamiliar curtain pulling over his eyes, shielding the spark of pride and other worldliness Dean's so accustomed to. "Hang on, okay, we'll get you all patched up. Sam? Sammy!" Dean throws his shoe at Sam and sighs in relief when Sam grunts, even if he doesn't move.

"Get up, Sam!" he screams, hysteria building in his chest.

"Hold on, Cas," Dean say, looking down. Cas raises a shaky hand and places it on Dean's cheek. It's ice cold.

"Sing me the angel song, Dean," Cas says, blinking owlishly.

Dean's first thought is what angel song. But then he looks back at the last few weeks and it hits him like a truck. And if the situation wasn't so dire, he'd snort and make some kind of snide comment because Cas thought _Carry On My Wayward Son _was about angels.

"You're not dying, Cas," he says, even though the blue light is getting brighter and Cas's face is getting paler.

He presses his hand down harder on the wound, hard enough it hurts him; he can feel the warmth of the grace, but it's a cold burn. Cas's fingers twitch against his cheek, fingernails just barely scratching.

Dean swallows and against his better judgement, he starts singing. "Carry on my wayward son," his throat is tight and his eyes burn. Cas is staring up at him, but the light is snuffing out, bit by bit. Grace is bleeding through Dean's jacket now.

"There'll be peace when you are done," Cas's hand crawls up the side of his face, up towards his temples, inching to his eyes.

"Lay your weary head to rest," Dean sniffs and can't stop the tears. "Cas," he whimpers as his nose starts to run.

"Dean," Cas whispers and then his hand is covering Dean's eyes, heel and fingers curling around his temples, pushing hard on them and an energy enters Dean, hot, electric, snapping, like a static shock, but more powerful. The air around him is filled with a massive _whoosh, _like a tornado is right by his ear. There's the distinctive sound of glass breaking and falling—the windows, Dean thinks. Dean bites down hard on his tongue to stop from screaming out. The longer the energy runs, the deeper it goes and it runs straight down to his marrow and lights it on fire. Dean thinks he can _feel _his cells combusting and decaying into ash. It lasts for an eternity and a single second all at once. The hairs on Dean's arms and legs rise stiff straight, his lips chap, his muscles tense tightly—

And then it's over. Cas's hand falls from his face, limp, and Dean's looking down at his lifeless face. His eyes are empty, expressionless and clouded over, a dead man's eyes but the worst part is the black stain underneath Dean and Cas, spanning six feet each way. Dean studies it for a moment while his breath is still caught in his throat. He can see each individual feather, can see each break in the bone that inches down from the shoulder to the tip. The breaks are meticulous, deliberate. One by one. Dean knows broken bones, but he's not sure how something can possibly exist that broken.

He sobs for a full minute, unable to breathe. It feels like someone's stuck their hands in his chest and have a vice grip on his lungs.

Once he's able to breathe again, he sucks in short, raspy breaths, like a drowning man that's just resurfaced.

He leans down, close to Cas's face. "Don't you cry no more," he stutters, every inch of him shaking like he's in a seizure and he leans further down and kisses Cas's lips. They're dry, cold and unresponsive and Dean just rests his face there for a long while, letting the pain take over.

It's some sixth sense that lets him know Sam's regained consciousness. Probably has something to do with the lightning storm that just happened, but Dean doesn't say anything. He keeps still where he is, even if he can feel Sam burning a hole in his back. Dean counts his breaths and curls his fingers around Castiel's hair, lips still touching Cas's. His mind is halted except for his breathing. One, two, three, four, five, six—He counts every rise and exhale, tries to focus his mind. He loses count and has to restart two times before he hears Sam crawling towards him.

"Dean?" Sam calls softly.

Dean presses down harder. He's overcome with the need to shield Cas's body with himself, but he doesn't understand why. It's only Sam and besides, Cas—.

Dean can't suppress the shudder that shakes his body, can't bite back the whimper that tears through his throat. Sam's hand is on his shoulder, steadying him. Dean can't find the strength in himself to raise his head, to face Sam. It's safer down here, tucked into himself, in his own world.

"Dean, look at me."

Oh, but Sam's pleading. He has that hitch in his voice, the inner bitchface that melds with it and Dean can't just ignore that. He turns his head slightly so that he sees his baby brother.

"I'm so sorry," Sam says and his eyes are red rimmed, even if he's not crying. "But we have to go. C'mon, let's…let's just go, Dean. We need to get him set up, right? A hunter's funeral? The sooner we do it, the better. C'mon, Dean, stand up."

Sam's hand moves down from Dean's shoulder towards Cas's. Dean stiffens and tightens his hold on Cas.

_It's only Sam, it's just Sam, just Sammy_ he says to himself, but that doesn't stop his movements.

"Don't," he says, his voice cracking. "Don't touch him."

"I'm not gonna hurt him, Dean," and god, Dean hates that tone, chastising him like he's a child. "Dean, we don't want to be here if Raphael shows up again, right? C'mon, we'll take him to the car. We'll give him a funeral. He deserves a funeral, doesn't he?"

Dean nods numbly. He knows, intellectually, that Sam is right. But he knows in his heart that this also feels right, this position, having Cas so close to him. His brain and his heart are at a war and the worst part was there wasn't a clear winning side.

"Just," Dean says eventually, licking his dry lips, "just give me a minute."

"We don't have a minute, Dean. We have go now. It's not good to make Cas wait like this, y'know."

In the deepest part of his energy reserves, Dean finds the energy to stand. His knees buckle a little as circulation returns and then he bends down to scoop Castiel into his arms. Sam reaches down to help him, but Dean bats him away.

"I got it," he says.

"Let me help you. You can't carry him by yourself."

"I said I got him, Sam!" Dean's throat aches from screaming, his face burns with tears and he tucks one arm underneath Castiel's knees, the other behind his shoulders and he lifts, despite the protest from his knees and back. Dead bodies always seemed heavier than the living ones; the absence of the soul, of the essence of the person, somehow weighed it down like rocks had been sewn into the stomach. Dean likes to think that souls were full of air, and like a balloon, made their bodies rise and move fluidly. The wings too, Dean can't but think as he gets another glimpse of the stains. The wings must've made Cas lighter. They gave him the ability to cross the cosmos, to fly to Jerusalem, across galaxies and planets with one large flap, and they were angelic, non-human, but when they were gone the body was human and human bodies were heavy.

Dean stumbles the first two steps, but he keeps a tight hold on Castiel, clutching him to his chest. Sam doesn't fight him anymore, just follows him sadly as he gnaws on his lip as they walk out to the Impala. Dean places Cas in the backseat, orientates him so that he's looking down on his face again. He stares for a long minute before closing Castiel's eyes. He slams the door shut and walks over to the driver's door.

"Maybe I should drive?" Sam suggests. Dean can hear the worry in his voice.

"I'll drive," he snaps. He needs the distraction. Nothing else exists when he's driving except for the road forward. He doesn't wait to listen to Sam argue further. He gets into his car and starts the ignition. Sam gets into the passenger seat reluctantly and Dean puts the car in drive and he goes forward. If tears continue to burn at his eyes, blur his vision and fall down his face, Sam doesn't say anything. Dean doesn't either. He just drives.


	19. Part Sixteen

Outside Bobby's house, Dean stares up at the stars. The trench coat is clutched to his chest, wadded into a tight ball. Dean gnaws at his lip until it starts to scab, and then he gnaws deeper, licking at the blood like a delicacy.

Tomorrow, he and Sam are going to drive back to Colorado, back to that warehouse. They're going to pray and scream and bitch at Raphael until he shows his ugly mug and Dean's going to stab the fucker with the angel blade he made. He's not leaving until he does.

Dean's aware of the likelihood of success. Ideally, Raphael could kill him instantly, rip him apart atom by atom with a snap of his fingers. Sam too. Sam's been working with Samandriel to create sigils that will hopefully depower Raphael enough that they stand a chance, but Dean knows that it does nothing to better their odds.

But he still has to try. He promised he would try.

And as the eleventh hour ticks by, he's consumed by so many feelings. And a strange dichotomy of not feeling at all. Empty, but full of insatiable rage. He may not be articulate, but he's at least fluent in English, semi fluent in Latin. And yet, he can't find a word to describe what he feels.

But if this is his last night alive, he wants to make everything right.

Dean swallows, still staring at the stars. He doesn't know what to believe. He knows what he wants to believe, the desire that burns in his heart and stomach. But he's old enough to know that want and reality hardly ever coincide. He knows Raphael could easily be lying just to make his life miserable, to make him hurt more. Motivation. Samandriel could've just been telling him what he wanted to hear, what Samandriel himself wanted to believe. Like Raphael said, Samandriel was young and how could he ever really know?

But…Crowley said.

Crowley said that angels don't go anywhere when they die. And Crowley is the most neutral party Dean has in this whole shitstorm. He knows there's always the chance that Crowley lied, but he can't find out why he would. Their business with Crowley was done. They left him alone to run Hell, he left them alone. They broke up mutually, no bad blood between them. And that only leaves behind three options. Crowley is either lying, telling the truth, or he doesn't know for sure.

The only reason Dean can think of that Crowley would lie is that he's fucking with Dean. But even Dean can't believe that, because Crowley had said it himself all those years ago, those first few days after Cas had died. He wasn't cruel. Evil, yeah. Self-interested, totally. But not cruel.

So, if Dean does die tomorrow, and if there really isn't a heaven for dead fallen angels, Dean wants to make everything as right as he can.

He pulls his lighter out of his jacket pocket and fumbles with the switch on it, once, twice, until the flame ignites in the cool, night air. He swallows again and holds the tiny, dancing flame underneath the coat. His hand shakes. He just needs to light the damn thing, let it burn to ash and cease to be. Because it's the right thing to do. Because he can't move on if he doesn't let go. Because Sam was right, it's respectful, and that was the only thing Cas ever asked of Dean, to respect him.

Dean raises his hand slightly. The flame is only about an inch underneath the fabric, but the wind keeps blowing it in every direction. Just a little higher and it'll catch and he can be done.

But…

But he can't do it. He needs to do it, he has to do it, burning it is right, but he can't. When his dad died, Dean still had the journal, evidence that his dad had existed, had been a part of their lives, even if his childhood was filled with memories Dean would rather forget, it had happened and it had been his life. This coat…this is all he really has of Castiel. Because the blade isn't Cas's blade anymore and it never really had been anyway, not since Cas gave it to him. This coat is all the evidence that Castiel had existed, had been a part of Dean's life and if he burns it, he has nothing of Castiel. Nothing to say they'd known each other, nothing to symbolize their struggles, their journey from bitter acquaintances, to awkward friends, to something more.

Memories aren't enough. He can't hold them, can't wrap himself in them, can't smell them and deluded himself into thinking that it's only a dream. That he'll wake up eventually, and everything will be okay if he just waits it out.

Dean licks his lips and puts his lighter out, stuffing it back into his pocket. His knees feel weak, unable to hold his weight anymore, and he falls to the ground. Not painfully, but he knows his knees will be scraped and more than likely bruised in the morning.

He thinks back to the two hundred angels that appeared on Bobby's doorstep, each looking up to him like he's a pseudo-God; each devoting a part of themselves to Castiel.

Castiel did that, Dean thinks. Castiel has an influence that transcends the veil of death; still has the power to convince angels to turn their backs on destiny and open their arms to free will.

He hears heavy footsteps come from behind him. Sam sits down next to him and regards him sadly for a moment. His hand reaches over towards the coat. Dean tightens his hold on it for a moment, reluctant to let anyone else touch it, but he sees the look in Sam's eye and relents. He trusts Sam. Sam won't hurt it. Sam looks at it, unfolds it. He fingers the hole in the back that only seems to grow larger, breaking apart seam by seam, as time wears on.

"We could probably clean this up," Sam says eventually. "It'll be hard, they're so old and set, but I think it's possible."

"I tried," Dean says, remembering the sting of the ice water on his hands, years later. "It only made it worse."  
"Maybe I should give it a try. Give me a few hours with it, I think I can at least make them less noticeable."

"What do you know about laundry?" Dean snorts. His heart isn't in it though, and he knows that Sam knows.

"Jess taught me most of it… You know, Dean, I never really realized how much you did for me until I went to college. Thanks. For everything."

And it's said in such earnest, Dean's heart seizes in his stomach. He doesn't want to cry. He's cried so much these last few years, harder than little girls and more often than newborn babies. He's tired of crying. He's almost fucking thirty three, but he's older than that even. He's actually really almost seventy three and his soul and his body don't meld like they used to. Cas remade his body from scratch, cell by cell, but he made it as Dean left it (only in one piece as opposed to the ribbons the hell hounds tore him into) and as time wears on, as he goes longer and longer without drinking or smoking or Cas, it doesn't feel like his body anymore. He can only hope that tonight will be the last night he feels like this. Whatever the outcome tomorrow, he doesn't want to live like this anymore. Not for Sammy and not for himself.

"Get any work done on the sigils?" Dean asks.

Sam nods. "Samandriel thinks he's found something. It won't make him human or anything, but Samandriel thinks it'll be enough to depower him to the level of any regular angel."

That's not so bad. They've taken out regular angels before. Dean ganked Zachariah all by himself. Of course, Zachariah had needed him alive, wouldn't have killed Dean no matter what. Dean doesn't have that advantage this time, but he knows he has time. Raphael didn't kill Cas right off the bat because he was an arrogant, sadistic, motherfucker who wanted to toy with his victims. Dean imagines he'll get that same treatment when they face him tomorrow.

"That's good," Dean answers, swallowing. "You think we've really got a shot at this? What if…"

Sam sighs. "I don't know, Dean. I don't know how tomorrow's going to go. I don't know if we're going to live or die or succeed or fail. We're just two normal, good for nothing guys going up against the strongest force in Heaven right now, with a weapon and with sigils we're not even sure will really work."

"Gee, thanks."

"But," Sam pops his lips, "I know we have to try. It's the family business, remember Dean? We kill monsters. Remember. We saved the world. We stopped the freaking Apocalypse, took down Michael and Lucifer. Satan, Dean. We defeated Satan. I don't care what Raphael has up his sleeves, he can't be that powerful."

Sam stands up, still holding onto the coat. "We have a habit of defying the odds. I don't plan on changing that anytime soon."

Sam blinks.

"Get to bed, Dean. I'll fix this, but you need to sleep. Big day tomorrow."

And Sam slinks back inside. Dean stays out there a while longer, staring up at the stars. His mind is blank. He doesn't know what to think, he doesn't want to think. Thinking is hard, it leads to depression and anger, makes hid body ache for booze and meds.

He lays down on the grass and pulls his lighter out of his pocket. He plays with it for several moments, igniting and then snuffing it out, until the oil finally dries up and it doesn't work anymore.

Somewhere deep in his marrow, Dean finds the strength to rise back to his feet and enter Bobby's house. Samdandriel doesn't seem to be there anymore, but Dean sees the evidence of his work. The sigils scratched on copy paper litter Bobby's breakfast table and countertops. They're complex little things, with so many swirls and circles. He still can't read Enochian, not really, but he can see that the sigil looks like several different ones lined up on top of one another. He sees the banishing sigil and some other littles squiggles on the edges he thinks mean protection.

Angels, he thinks with a snort. You could stab them, shoot them, chuck silver at them, snap their necks or hit them with a car and it wouldn't leave a scratch on them. But a couple of pretty little squiggles drawn in blood and they were demoted, powerless, closest to mortality they would ever come to.

Dean hears a beat of wings behind him. His throat feels tight and he turns to face Samandriel, still clutching the sheet of paper in his hand. "You really think this is going to work?" He ignores the crack in his voice.

Samandriel bows his head. "I think it is your best chance at defeating Raphael."

Samandriel steps forward. The lip of the counter bites into the small of Dean's back as he has no room to escape. Samandriel regards him with such intensity and Dean is reminded of his first real conversation with Cas. That had been a dream, but it had felt real. This. This is real, but feels like a dream. Dean's head hurts. Nothing makes sense anymore.

Samandriel places the back of his palm against Dean's cheek. Nothing about this is sexual, but Dean understands the intimacy behind it. "You were all he ever talked about," Samandriel says eventually. "If only you could have heard what he said about you. He bragged about you, Dean Winchester. He compared the beauty of your soul to Sirius, the brightest star in this galaxy only behind your sun."

"Alfie," Dean says, his voice a warning. "Stop."

"He battled for forty years, descending ever further and further into the bowels of Perdition—"

"Please."

"How many demons he slew, tattered souls he saw, only Father knows the number—"

Dean shakes his head and puts his hands over his ears, but he can still hear Samandriel.

"And yet, he only ever spoke of you. When he had given up all hope, when he grew fatigued and injured from all the fighting and flying, he saw your soul shine brightly like a star. It ripped through the smoke and the blackness and it lead Castiel to you. Like a sailor, lost at sea, caught in a tumultuous storm finally seeing the beckoning call of a light house. And when he found you and took hold of you—what took him four decades to descend down to, he ascended out of in mere minutes.

"Stop doubting your own strength, Dean Winchester. Castiel believed in you, in your worth, from the very beginning. When you doubt yourself, you doubt him."

"I don't," Dean's lips tremble and he bites down to avoid crying. "I don't know how to not doubt. Alfie, I…I can't. I'm not…that. I'm not what Cas saw, or even what he thinks he saw. I'm a loser."

"A loser that an angel fell in love with, nonetheless. Fine then. If it is too much to ask of you to believe in yourself, then I ask you to believe in Castiel. Can you do that?"

Dean sniffs as Samandriel lets his hand fall and backs away. He looks Samandriel in the eyes and nods. He could believe in Cas.

"You saw," Samandriel says. "Castiel's loyalists, they still believe and hope. If Raphael is defeated tomorrow, it will topple the entire infrastructure of Heaven. Free will, for all angels. Castiel's dream will finally be achieved. You can achieve it for him."

The tension is Dean's shoulders lessen; he tilts his chin up. He can do that, he thinks. He killed Yellow Eyes for his dad. He can do this for Castiel.

And himself. But that's not entirely that important.

"Will you help me?" Dean asks.

Samandriel's hand falls and he steps away. He sighs. "I think you should do it on your own. With your brother's assistance, of course, but without us. You don't need Heaven's assistance, Dean, I think you've proven that well enough."

Dean snorts. "If I die, you'll feel really bad."

Samandriel smiles shyly. "Maybe just a little."

Then, Samandriel touches Dean's forehead gently and murmurs in Enochian. Dean feels his blood flooded with a cooling sensation, like he has ice in his veins. It feels nice. He feels the stress ease out his pores, feels the worry and doubt drain away. When Samandriel stops talking and pulls his hand away, Dean asks, "What was that?"

"A prayer. For good luck."

"Might need a double order of those."

"You'll do fine, Dean. You've thwarted the plans of Heaven and Hell once before already. It should be easier the second time around, no?" Samandriel pauses for a moment. "Get some sleep, Dean. You'll need it."

When Dean does eventually take the incentive to climb up the stairs and go into the bedroom, he sees the coat on the foot of the bed, folded neatly. He picks it up and examines it. The stains aren't gone, but they're less noticeable and the large hole that was in the back has been sloppily stitched together. The thread is obviously too thick and the spacing is uneven, but it's together now. It's better.

Dean sleeps better that night than he has in a long time.

_AN: One more chapter left. _


	20. Ending

They make it to Colorado just before dusk that next night. It had been Sam's idea to go back to where it all began. Dean can't help but think of Harry Potter at that moment, the five words that had appeared and ran through the last novel like a theme. _I open at the close._ It's so final. The end is the beginning. Full circle, karma, whatever you wanted to call it.

It's fitting, Dean thinks. To end it in the same place where it all began. Well, as far back as they're able to go. Dean would say the beginning was back in Heaven, when Raphael laid that first blow, the first time he threatened Cas with join or die. But he couldn't get there, so the warehouse would have to do. His own PTSD put aside.

They paint the sigils Samandriel drew on the outside, covering the older ones Raphael drew all that time ago. Nothing's changed about the building and it looks as untouched as it had all those years ago. Even the windows are still blown out, glass lining the ground, crunching beneath their boots into dust.

The sigils are well detailed and numerous. For protection, depowering, entrapment. It takes them nearly two hours and twelve slashes across four palms to draw them all but when they finish, they glow an unearthly blue, radiating with power.

Dean stares at them for a minute, his throat feeling tight and his head feeling dizzy. "Let's go in," he says and doesn't wait for Sam to respond. He ignores the familiar stain on the floor when he gets in. He pulls out the angel blade, gripping it so tightly he can feel the constriction of blood flow and he glances to the sky, through the open windows where the night breeze flies in.

"Hey, Raphael," he says, "I made a bet with Sam you wouldn't show your fugly ass if I kept yelling at you, 'cause you're too stupid to find out where we are. And I was just thinking, 'Man, how can someone literally older than dirt be as stupid as you?'. And I'm still wondering how that goes, 'cause it seems to me that all angels are morons. But you especially. For one of the few who've met God, you think you'd be a little more enlightened. But I guess the apple doesn't fall from the tree. Explains why you must be one of the stupider ones, anyway, getting to know God face to face. If you're that dumb, can only wonder what kind of rocks God's got knocking around, y'know, if He even has any."

It works.

Of course it works, though. Dean's old enough, wise enough to know now that his father was abusive and obsessive, more a form of transportation than a parent. Still, if anyone besides him or Sam were to insult his dad like that…

He hears Raphael fly in behind him. The room becomes colder by ten degrees at least. Dean hears Sam get into position. The Colt won't kill Raphael, but it will slow him down and it gives Sam a good means of protection, being long range. Dean collects himself and turns to face Raphael.

"Howdy," he says.

Raphael's face twists into a deep scowl, eyeing the walls of the building with fury.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Sam and I been into finger painting recently. What'dja think? We do a good job?"

Raphael steps forward and raises his hand outward. Dean doesn't react, except when Raphael's scowl deepens, frustration weaving into his expression.

"It's not gonna work," he says. "Sam and I, we did a really good job finger painting."

Raphael's hand falls, and then he smirks. "That's all well. I do not need to smite you to kill you. It's actually rather helpful, knowing I can't kill you quickly. Suffering is indeed the way to make you see the err of your ways. Who knows, maybe I won't even kill you at all? If you think thirty years on the Rack was torturous, oh, Dean you have no idea what an eternity at my hand will be. I will make your time in the Pit feel like a vacation in comparison."

"Oh," Dean says. "That might not work out so well, cause see, here's the thing." He holds the blade outwards so that Raphael can see it. Raphael obviously knows what it is because his spine stiffens and his eyes darken. Dean sees his fingers curl inwards, nails digging into the meat of his palm and again, Dean's thinking briefly about Raphael's vessel. He wonders if the vessel can feel the pain in his palm; if he can feel the anger boiling inside his blood.

"Do not tempt me, boy," Raphael snarls and he approaches Dean. Dean stays frozen in his spot, whether out of fear or brash stupidity, he's not sure. "What make you so sure that will even work?"

"Blood," Dean says. "Blood magic. It's the darkest, most powerful magic in the world. It's your blood in here, y'know. You didn't mean to give it to me that night, but you did. And, I've had a lot of help from the angel cavalry. You're wrong, y'know. Fear doesn't make them bow to you. If anything, it makes their desire to destroy you stronger." He licks his lips shakily.

_And Faith, _he thinks. _I've got Faith. _

Raphael leans in so close Dean can feel his breath on his face. "Do you know what is stronger than fear, Dean? Anger." And then with a flick of his wrist, Dean's feet are off the floor and he's thrown straight across the room into the far wall. His head hits with a resounding crack and his vision is blackened with stars briefly until the distinct sound of Sam's shrill "Dean!" breaks his trance.

He hears the colt fire, once, twice, as he struggles to his feet, knees buckling underneath him. The angel blade is still tight in his grasp and he can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips around the handle.

Blearily, he sees Raphael has Sam backed against the side wall. "Boy King," he says, "a concoction of the two worst abominations, human and demon. When I finish with your brother, I will see to it you return where you rightfully belong. You get to be Lucifer's plaything for eternity while your brother returns to the Pit, to be strung up like meat and sliced open again and again. No option to wield the blade himself this time. He'll be stuck there, as will you.  
Dean rushes towards Raphael, and like a linebacker on steroids, knocks him to the ground. They wrestle on the floor. It's a struggle for Dean to keep Raphael pinned down while simultaneously holding onto the blade and in the end, he can't do it. Raphael throws Dean off him, pins him underneath and has his hands wrapped tightly around Dean's throat. The lack of oxygen takes effect immediately, the grip is so strong, and he can't muster up the energy needed to raise the blade and plunge it through Raphael's heart.

But he does manage to nick Raphael on the arm and is rewarded when Raphael reels away, grasping at the wound that's trickling blood and a blue light.

And the realization of that is enough to clear Dean's head, to stop the spinning, to ease the nausea and help him ignore the throbbing in his neck because _it worked. _

It hurt Raphael. It made him bleed.

And if it bleeds, they can kill it.

He lunges again, but Raphael's drawn his own blade this time and he blocks Dean's strike. Their blades grind against each other. Raphael has the advantage. Experience, plus his blade is longer, stronger than Dean's. They screech with friction before Raphael shoves Dean backwards. Dean stumbles, but quickly regains his footing as Raphael lunges again.

Dean's mind reels backwards. What was it Cas had told him? Keep toes pointed forward. Check.

His balance feels unsteady as he adjusts, but he realizes the position forces him to stand straighter. His back becomes ramrod and when Raphael aims for stabbing him near his kidney, he dodges, spinning on his heels so that he's at Raphael's flank and he buries the blade in the small of Raphael's back. He pulls the blade out quickly, ready to go for the kill shot, ready to end this once and for all, when Raphael catches him off guard. He spins and grabs Dean's wrist. Dean cries in surprise and then cries for real when Raphael crushes his wrist beneath his fingertips. Dean falls to his knees and drops the blade, instinctively bringing his injured wrist to his chest. It's bleeding and throbbing and he can feel the bones shifting beneath his skin.

Raphael lowers himself down to pick up Dean's angel blade, but then Sam rushes out from the corner, tackling Raphael to the ground. There's a bang and then blood is pooling from Raphael's temple. He's on the ground, Sam towering over him with the gun pointed at his face, but he won't shoot. Dean groans in pain, knowing Sam can't just shoot willy nilly. They only have so many bullets and even if they did have another couple of rounds, they couldn't sacrifice the time necessary to cock and reload.

Dean reaches for the angel blade while Raphael's down, biting down on his tongue to keep from cursing in agony.

_Fuck fuck fuck_ he thinks, because sparring is hard enough already, but now he has to do it left handed, every miniscule movement sends a fire of pain from his fingertips all the way to his shoulder. He stands, though, adrenaline taking precedence over the pain, in the time it takes Raphael to get back on his feet and send Sam flying across the room with a flick of his wrist.

The angel blade feels heavier in his left hand and Dean gulps a breath of cold, stale air, the gravity of the situation finally hitting him like a ton of steel bricks. Raphael's depowered, but he's still an angel, and angels are not human, not bound by the same weaknesses. Pain, fatigue; it doesn't affect them the same way and while Dean's barely able to hold onto consciousness, the pain in his wrist and knees and back are so bad it calls for sleep, Raphael hardly seems fazed by the bullets in his brain, or the warm blood running rivulets down his face.

Dean doesn't think when he lunges again, hoping, praying he can catch Raphael off guard. Just one, just once, he only needs to do it once, he only needs Raphael to make one mistake, one single slip up, one false step and he can win. Raphael clotheslines him instead, effectively knocking all the air out of his lungs in one swift motion.

He's on his knees in front of Raphael and he grips the angel blade tight and surges upwards.

Raphael catches his wrist and for a horrible moment, Dean thinks he's going to break that one too. What will he do then? He'll be totally defenseless then and where is Sam, why isn't Sam helping him?

Raphael takes the blade out of his hand gently, motherly and Dean has no choice but to just sit there while Raphael examines it.

_This is it,_ he thinks. _This is how I die._

In retrospect, it's one of the better ways he could have gone out.

"It is impressive, I must admit," Raphael says. "Quite smart, using Castiel's own blade as the base. Sam's idea, I presume? You're not smart enough to come up such a novel idea. I can feel the power radiating underneath it, the blessing bestowed upon it. But Dean, let me tell you the truth. Somebody must tell you the truth, at least one time in your pathetic life. Blessings are only words. Now, words can have power. Exorcisms are just words. But exorcism, hmm, excise. They take out, remove. You can move power _from _place to place, demons out of a vessel back into Hell, but you cannot move power _into_ a place. A hundred blessings does not make this sword any stronger. Samandriel did you a disservice, allowing Castiel's loyalists to perform such an act. Raising false hope is sinful. It bloats the ego. That's bad for you, but…all the better for me. What is it you humans say? The bigger they are, the harder they fall?"  
"Oh, I just love a good dose of irony!"

Dean's head snaps to the side, in sync with Raphael's, at the foreign voice.

"Crowley?" Dean can't contain his surprise at seeing the King of Hell in the warehouse, standing just a few feet away. Dean's conscious enough to notice he's standing in between Raphael and Sam, who's leaning against the wall, nursing a bloody head.

"Hello, boys," Crowley says, flashing his grin.

"Demon scum," Raphael says, snarling. "What business have you here?"

"Yes, well, fuck you too, Raphael. Don't fret, business is all I'm here for. Just protecting some investments is all."

Crowley snaps his fingers and Raphael is thrown against the wall directly behind him. He's pinned there, fingers curling, growling like a dog.

"Nice work on the sigils, Dean, and no, that's not sarcasm."

Dean doesn't say anything, too surprised to force his thoughts into words. What is Crowley doing here?

Crowley steps up to Raphael and he plucks the angel blade out of his hand with envious ease. "Hmm, form could use some work, Deano, but color me impressed. Didn't know you had the brains in you." His eyes raise to meet Raphael's. "Now onto you. You," Crowley's lips curl over his teeth and he makes a _tsk tsk _noise. "Angels. If Lucifer's my daddy, then I guess that makes you my uncle, doesn't it? What do you say, Uncle Raphy, can I get a hug?"

Raphael attempts to lunge, like a caged dog, but he only snaps back against the wall. "Release me, abomination."

"Oh no, not until I'm done. I've got quite the list of complaints to share and you, dear Uncle Raphy, are quite difficult to get a hold of. No, you're going to stay right there."

Crowley glances back over at Dean and winks. "Always've hated angels, Dean. Not because we're polar opposites, that's too animalistic. Like dogs and cats, no, that's not why I hate them." He turns to Raphael. "I hate you because you're hypocrites. You vomit on and on about fate and destiny, but when the cards don't fall in your favor, you have to stick your grubby little paws in and try to spin it to your will. That's not destiny, darling, that's _cheating. _And you angels never stop talking about how you're all just one big happy family, but the truth is you've got more skeletons in your closest than Jeffrey Dahmer. You'd soon as turn on each other as the wind changes direction. So, not only are you hypocrites, you're also liars.

"I had a lot riding on Winchester's little boy toy winning that war. He didn't even want to lead Heaven, only wanted to destroy its tyranny. I'd like to think with him ruling, Heaven and Hell could come to an amicable treaty where we both leave each alone."

"Do you have a point to all of this, demon?"

"Patience, dear, I'm getting there. Don't forget, you involved me in your affairs the moment you jumped Castiel with those demons, my citizens. What you did was nothing short of domestic terrorism and all the while you stood there wearing a black little hood."

"Who are you to speak of villainy? You're the shit beneath my boots, demon. Lucifer's creation. You dare to call me an executioner? How is what you do in Hell any different?"

Crowley smacks his lips. "Free will is a funny thing. I've merely turned Hell into a business. People call me to make deals. They decide that their soul is worth losing those last few pesky pounds, or getting that promotion at work or for their significant other to mysteriously vanish in the night, allowing them to run off with their Spanish lover. I don't coerce them, I don't force them. They do it all of their own volition and suffer the consequences accordingly. They had choices and they made them. Castiel didn't."

Dean sees it, a twitch in Raphael's fingers, but before he can warn Crowley, Raphael lunges forward. Crowley side steps him, twirling the blade between his fingers. Dean snaps his eyes close, prepared for Raphael to come back at him, but no blow ever comes and when he cracks one eye open, he can see Crowley and Raphael sparring. Crowley for the better part looks absolutely bored to death, while Raphael is fuming mad.

"People come to me," Crowley continues to say, "but nobody goes to angels to get what they want." Crowley ducks, Raphael's sword missing his head by less than half an inch. Crowley shoots forward, but Raphael blocks him, smacking him in the face with his blade. Crowley's head raises and blood flows from his nose into his mouth. "Oh, sure," he says. "People pray to angels, but that's just talk. If they want real results, they come to my kind!"

"Your kind," Raphael snarls, "are the same."

"Hmm, if they don't remember even being human, were they ever human? If only Castiel were here, this is the kind of philosophy that'd send him into a tizzy. Or an existential crisis and _not_ the fun kind."

Then, Crowley seizes a final opportunity. He juts the blade forward, catching Raphael in the neck. Blood sprays from the wound like a fountain, painting every surface. Raphael tries to speak, but all that comes out is a bunch of mumbled nonsense. Crowley plants his boot flat on Raphael's chest and pushes down. Dean hears the ribs break from where he sits.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," Crowley laments. "Listen up, birdbrain. Heaven is a sham. I know it, you know it, Castiel knew it, and the Winchesters know it. I might be evil, but I'm not a liar. And I at least know not to underestimate my opponent."

Then Crowley turns to Dean, his eyes dark, but swimming underneath, an emotion Dean can't quite detect. Pity, maybe? "Dean, darling," he holds out the blade. "Would you like to do the honors?"

"How did you know where we were?" Sam asks once they're safely outside. Dean barely registers the words, still in shock. His hands are shaking; the bones mended back together thanks to Crowley. But even though it's not broken anymore, there's still a pain underneath his skin with origins Dean can't find.

"Heaven's Most Adorable summoned me and asked for my aid."

"Why?" Dean says. His mouth feels like it's full of cotton.

Crowley looks at him, reads into him. Dean feels like he's inside a dream. Crowley smacks his lips. "Raphael was going to be a thorn in my backside eventually, one way or the other. I figured I'd dispose of him before he became a problem."

That's not quite right, Dean knows. "Thought you said you weren't a liar."

"Really, Squirrel? A liar lying about their lying is a surprise to you?" His gaze transfers to Sam. "You really did luck out in the brain department, didn't you, Moose?"

"What aren't you telling me?" Dean asks. He has to know why Crowley helped him. Self-interested, Dean thinks, except if that were the entire case, why did Crowley make sure it was Dean that got to finish the job? If Crowley's motives were entirely selfish, he would've killed Raphael himself, right?

"Always had a soft spot for that feather duster of yours, Dean." Crowley smacks his lips. "Don't wait up for me, boys. I'm to be terrible busy running damnation, so Dean, please no more late night booty calls, all right? I'm committed."

And then Crowley was gone, the spot he'd been occupying barren. Dean clenches his teeth together and shares a look with Sam, the question of the day hanging tense in the air.

_Now what? _

Now, they hunt. Decapitating vampires and staking werewolves seems incredibly dull compared to fighting archangels and working with demons, but it's their life and their responsibility to protect regular people with regular jobs and regular lives.

Something inside unfurls after that night, an anger so deeply rooted it felt like it'd been a part of him his entire life, as natural to him as every freckle on his skin. It unfurls and decays and eventually begins to break away piece by piece. Sam calls it acceptance; says he's finally able to move on now, but Dean's not so sure about that. It feels like too easy an answer and it's such an odd word: acceptance. The way Sam says seems to define it as being synonymous with knowledge, but Dean thinks it runs deeper than that. Dean knows that Castiel is dead. Dean knows that by killing Raphael, he's done everything possible in his power to avenge Cas, to do him right. Yet, he's still not able to accept either of those things. Still, he's not just able to let those thoughts wrap around his ankles and pull him down like he used to. He's tired of being angry. His dad was angry for over twenty years and it changed him, contorted him into something that bordered close to being the kind of monster he trained his children to hunt.

After killing Raphael, Dean only has one more encounter with Heaven. Samandriel came to him privately a few days after, with gratitude and congratulations.

"It's going to be a long process," Samandriel had said. "Tearing down an eternity of brain washing and tyranny. There has been debate about you maybe taking control, but as I've argued, we have to learn to lead ourselves. Thank you, Dean. For everything." It was the last time Dean saw him.

Dean's in his forties when he comes to the realization that he's had the wrong definition of moving on. It's an epiphany that jolts him awake from a deep sleep; he can't recall what he'd been dreaming about, if it was good or bad or even if he'd been dreaming at all. He thinks of his dad who cried over his dead wife for twenty years. Of Bobby, who still mourned Karen even though he got his revenge too. All this time, he thought moving on meant forgetting, but now he realizes he's wrong. It's not about forgetting. It's about living on in spite of remembering. Because if there's anything he's learned, it's that it _doesn't _get better. It never stops hurting, but that's _okay_. It's okay to be sad. It's okay to miss someone every day for the rest of your life.

The realization doesn't make Dean feel any better about the situation; but he stops feeling guilty for feeling the way he does. And life goes on, until it doesn't.

Dean's well into his fifties when he unexpectedly dies in his sleep, painlessly, from a subarachnoid hemorrhage caused from a ruptured, aged aneurysm from sustaining multiple concussions in his lifetime. It's swift, painless, and permanent.

He dies in a motel room in Kansas and wakes up to the sun shining in his eyes, soft grass beneath his back and a voice calling out to him.

"Hello, Dean."

_Epilogue _

Dean shoots up, disorientated, but not in any pain. In fact, he feels better than he's ever felt, ever. He's thirty years old again. And as his senses come back to him, sound, smell, touch, sight—sight—he sees Castiel sitting in front of him, smiling gently. He hesitates only for a brief moment. After, he doesn't care. He springs forward, closing the distance; his hands wrap around the back of Castiel's head and he crushes their lips together. He feels Cas tense at first in surprise, and maybe confusion, before tentatively relaxing, even if his lips stay still. Dean breaks the contact after a few seconds and he touches their foreheads together.

"You're supposed to kiss back," he teases, because he's just too happy to be upset.

"My apologies," Cas says. "To be honest, I, um, I'm not certain of what to do."

"It's okay," Dean says, running his fingers through Cas's hair. "I can teach you." He brings his hands to Cas's cheeks, running his thumbs along Cas's jawline, if only to prove to himself that this is real and that Cas is actually here. "God, I missed you, you stupid son of a bitch."

"I know. I missed you too, Dean."

Then, a terrible thought flashes through Dean's mind before he can catch it. "You're," he pauses and has to swallow the lump in his throat. "You're really you, right?" Not just simulacra, an illusion, but the real Castiel, the actual Castiel.

"Of course," Cas murmurs and that's it for Dean, all the confirmation he could ever need, because his Castiel can't lie to save his life and not even Heaven could simulate the devotion and endless love pooling in those eyes. He can't hold back the tears and he latches onto Castiel like a child clinging to his mother.

"They told me you were gone, just _gone_, like, nowhere, _I thought I'd never see again,_" he starts to babble. Words get harder as his tongue fattens in his mouth and his throat closes up.

Cas's hand rests gently on his back and he simply lets Dean be; he doesn't ask questions, he doesn't press. He sits there quietly until Dean's able to compose himself enough to look Castiel in the eye and speak again.

"To be honest," Cas says quietly, "I was quite surprised myself. Angels aren't supposed to have souls, but," he pulls at Dean's hand and places over where his own heart would be. There's no beating, but Dean feels something; a warmth, like taking a hot shower on a cold day. It hums gently underneath his fingertips and the glow in Cas's eyes is so innocent and child-like, Dean can't help but laugh.

"It tickles," he says, smirking. Another pressing thought passes through his mind. "Is Sam—"

"Sam will join us when his time comes and not a moment before. You two were not meant to be separated forever."

Dean nods, it's the best answer he could've gotten. Sam gets to live a full life and Dean gets to see him again one day. "And you? What've you been doing all this time?"

"Waiting for you."

Dean can't find the words to respond to that. He sighs and pulls back. And then he notices where they are.

"This is my house," he says, in awe. He's surprised he still recognizes it; it was years and years ago and he was only four, barely old enough to form any long term memories. The most prominent memories of his childhood home were filled with the smell of smoke and his mother's singing. He didn't remember the color of the shutters, or what kind of bushes were planted by the front door, but he recognizes them and he knows.

"Your heaven is my house from when I was a kid?" Dean asks.

"My heaven is wherever you are."

Dean snorts, but there's no anger in it. "No chick flick moments."

"Dean," Cas says, in full Angel of the Lord voice (which is totally _not _a turn on, no siree), "I've been dead and waiting for you for over twenty years." He closes the distance between himself and Dean. "I think I'm entitled to as many chick flick moments as I want."

"I love you," Dean says, leaning into the kiss. He nibbles at Cas's bottom lip, whispering with each minute break they make, "Though I'd never…never see you again."

When they finish, they lean into each other.

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says. "For what you did."

Dean sighs. "Y'think Raphael has a heaven?" Because if Cas was here, it meant angels did go somewhere they died.

Cas hums slightly. "I hope so. He was only doing what he thought was right. No one deserves to go to Hell."

Dean wasn't sure if he agreed with that. There were plenty of people, he'd argue, who did deserve Hell. Raphael definitely being one of them, after what he did to Cas, to Dean, to all the other angels.

But, regardless…he was still Cas's brother. And Cas cares so much for all his brothers, of course he would forgive the guy who tortured and killed him.

This was Heaven, though. There was no place here for anger, or for holding grudges. Dean is too overwhelmed to care. Cas is here, Cas is real, he's really really here, they both are. And Sam will be too, one day. Sammy gets to have a life.

"I met my father," Cas says in between soft kisses. "He said," Dean interrupts him with another quick kiss, "He said He was proud of me."

"Fuck yeah, He better be," Dean says. "and even if He's not, I can be proud enough for the both of us. Sammy too."

"Thank you, Dean."

Dean coughs slightly. Could you get sick in Heaven, was that a thing? "So, uh, about those chick flick moments?"


End file.
